


~ Summerland ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Summerland [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover of ‘The Ways of Paradox’ and ‘Dark Prince ‘verse, Gen, Mention of canon characters - Freeform, Mentioned: Maglor, Mentioned: Sauron, You need to be familiar with both ‘verses to read this, crossover of verses, modern age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-02 11:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: New experiences broaden the mind —trauma and the impossible crack it wide open.A quiet summer holiday, the hint of a mystery, and the changing of one woman’s world.This is a little gift-fic for Narya, a crossover of my ‘verse and her ‘The Wanderer’ ‘verse, (more the latter) and specifically her fic ‘The Ways of Paradox’ because I love it.Modern Age. OC and OFC’s. Mention of canon characters.





	1. ~ The Sleeper ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya (Narya_Flame)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Ways of Paradox](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638137) by [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame). 



  
  
  
  


**~ The Sleeper ~**

 

 

~ Hot car parks, he thought, were a special kind of hell, created by humankind for humankind. Metal and chrome snapped angry sparks of light, fumes hung in the windless air. Vehicles slotted neatly (and not so neatly) into parking spaces, disgorging men and women who bustled into the supermarket to return pushing loaded trolleys, arguing, chatting, laughing.

He reversed the car, easing slowly toward the exit until he came to a tiny section beside the recycling bins where a woman was squatting beside a small purple-blue car. She looked hot and frustrated as she rose, pushing her hands into her hair, biting her lip. Pulling into one of the few remaining spaces, he got out of the car.  
‘Could I help?’

The woman cast a quick, flustered glance at him, looked away, then, more slowly, looked back.  
‘A flat tyre. And I have milk and butter.’

‘Do you have a spare?’

‘No,’ she snapped, not at him, he thought, but at the situation. ‘I’ll have to ring the AA.’ She reached for her phone.

He offered her an unopened water bottle, Her brows went up. ‘Thanks. I have no idea what happened. I didn’t feel anything, and when I came out — look at it. Oh,’ as her call was answered, ‘Yes, I have a flat tyre —‘

He looked at his own phone, rarely used and certainly unneeded until she finished her call.

‘An hour,’ she groaned. ‘They’re very busy.’

‘Where do you need to get to?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps I could give you and your shopping a lift?’

Alarm bells went off in her eyes. A normal reaction, and one he didn’t blame her for. She was a pretty young woman alone, being offered help by a strange man. Predictably, she refused, closing down, edging away.  
‘Thank you, but I need to be here. I’ll just get a drink in the cafe while I wait. And ring my friend...’

An apologetic smile, the smile a well-mannered woman gives when she has to refuse a man anything, hoping he won’t get angry, and she walked quickly away. He looked after her for a moment, glanced around the car park again, then got into his car and carefully parked in a space that allowed him to see everyone going in and coming out of the store and, most especially, the little blue-purple car.

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

The caravan park was small, peaceful, just what they’d been looking for, or rather what Claire had been looking for when searching for a holiday, and with a view over the small bay that made the long drive worthwhile.  
The owners, a Madge and John Lawson, had been quite charming. It was their first year of opening, Claire and Rosie almost their first booking.  
They sat outside, that first evening, sipping cold beer. To their left, patchwork fields rolled toward the distant moors; to their right and ahead, the glimmering sea and the jut of wooded land that formed one arm of the small bay.

‘A Bentley, though.’ Rose cast her a look.

‘Oh, come on. What would you have done?’

Rosie knitted her brows. ‘Not sure,’ she admitted. ‘Hung around a while, anyway, asked his name. There were people close by. You were safe enough.’

Claire pursed her lips. ‘Maybe.’ But it had been hot and she had been upset and annoyed after a long drive and then going out again for shopping. ‘It just seemed really...strange.’ _And so did he._

‘Sad old world, isn’t it,’ Rosie lamented. ‘when we have to be wary of strangers offering to help us.’

‘Hmm.’ Yes it was, and it was indeed sad but true that you couldn’t always trust strangers. Male ones anyhow. She shifted in the chair.

‘So...?’ Rosie lifted her brows.

What?’

‘What did he look like?’

 _Like nothing on Earth._ ‘A male model, the kind you see in Vogue, or Harpers and Queen in designer suits, standing by a car that costs the size of a mansion. Well, he was wearing dark glasses, but..’

Rosie’s mouth opened. ‘Wow,’ she said blankly. ‘Do you think he shops there often? Shall we go back tomorrow? Strength in numbers, and all that.’

‘Yes, because he looked like just the kind of man who would shop regularly at a Sainsbury’s ever day of the week.’

‘Even the rich have to eat.’

‘Well, we will have to shop there again,’ Claire acknowledged. She had needed to buy more milk and butter, the originals being respectively almost cottage cheese and liquid when the AA finally turned up. Madge Lawson, on hearing this, had offered her a cool-box for her next shopping trip.

‘I know camping would’ve been cheaper.’ Taking a sip of beer she changed the subject. ‘But this is wonderful.’ The air was scented with salt and cut grass, seagulls called distantly; nearby, a blackbird sang from the woods. She closed her eyes with an echo of that delightful childhood feeling of holidays, of freedom, of nothing to worry about for the next few weeks...

 

OooOooO

 

The Yew Tree Inn had settled into its age with gentle and picturesque ease. Long, and low, it was heavily be-wigged with dark-gold thatch. The enormous old tree that gave its name to the place, towered over it.

Claire had picked up a local ‘eateries’ (which translated to local pubs) leaflet from a rack in the laundry room that morning after stuffing her sweaty travel clothes into one of the machines. Madge Lawson had said the Yew did wonderful Sunday lunches, not too expensive. Claire and Rosie were on something of a budget, but they could afford to eat out once in a while. They had decided on an early lunch and a lazy afternoon.

It was cool in the dining room, and delightful, savoury smells wafted from the kitchens. Mrs Lawson had been right, Claire acknowledged, the food was wonderful after subsisting on sandwiches during the drive and a quick dinner of scrambled eggs when she finally arrived at the caravan after the flat-tyre debacle. There was pudding to follow and they sat over glasses of red wine for a while as more people entered the room. The interior, in that common _leitmotif_ of old English pubs, was dark red and gold, exposed beams polished almost black, and little nooks where tables were set. Much more pleasant, Claire thought, than a large, noisy open space.

‘My god,’ Rosie said suddenly. ‘Is _that_ him?’

‘Who?’ Claire asked, all at sea.

‘Bet you that’s him. The guy with the Bentley.’

Claire stiffened. ‘Where?’

‘Just walked into the bar.’ Rosie was frankly gawping. ‘Must be. Tall, black hair, endless legs. Phew.’

Claire felt her neck heating up and resisted looking. She couldn’t see, anyhow. The beam she was sitting next to obstructed her view.

‘Anyway,’ Rosie added, still staring. ‘I saw the car pull in. Black Bentley Continental. Pure class. Pure _money_. Now he’s talking to the barman.’

‘Well, don’t _stare_.’

‘Still wearing dark glasses,’ Rosie noted unabashed.

Claire liked Rosie, she really did, but she worried for her. Rosie, blonde and attractive, had not yet learned that life could kick dirt even into the prettiest of faces. Claire’s job in London (that she did not for one moment regret leaving) had left her with enough scars to fear that a rattling fall stood in Rosie’s future. And she couldn’t think that a frighteningly handsome man, rich enough to cruise round in a Bentley, would ever take notice of an ‘ordinary’ woman. Men liked that tended to choose people of their own class and wealth.

‘You know,’ Rosie said thoughtfully. ‘He reminds me of Mark.’ A glance. ‘Mark Lowry.’

Claire frowned. She had thought the same thing herself.

‘Don’t you think? Same sort of...type. Where did you say he went, again?’

‘Abroad, I think.’

Rosie was watching her, kind and shrewd. ‘Okay. Look, I know you’re not a —‘ she spread her hands, ‘a _thing_ , but there is something.’

Claire couldn’t help snorting. ‘Not a thing but a something?’

Rosie cast up her eyes. ‘You care for each other.’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. But not like that. Or not exactly. She was damned if she would work it out, actually. It was like caring for an angel with a broken wing, she sometimes thought, some beautiful, powerful and wounded being. Not that there was anything in his manner to suggest he found her (or anyone else) beneath him, rather as if _what_ he was elevated him in some way she had not yet fathomed. And too, there was the underscore of sorrow like some deep-running tide, that caused her to feel some diffidence. Treating him — even thinking of him — as a normal (if gorgeous guy) seemed oddly demeaning.  
And he wasn’t _normal_ at all. Their friendship, strange relationship, whatever one wanted to call it, was not normal either.  
‘And no, we’re not a _thing_. We’re friends.’ She finished her wine, stood up, reaching for her backpack.

‘I do know there’s more than one kind of relationship,’ Rosie said. ‘I just think, if there were a fire, he’d save you first.’

‘I think he’d try and save everyone.’ _And I think he did try...And failed._

The man was leaving and Claire couldn’t help but note the way he walked as that, too, reminded her of Mark: the back utterly straight below wide, flat shoulders, the slim waist and almost predatory prowl. There was an arrogance about it. In older times, warrior-kings might have owned a carriage like that. People got out of the way for someone who walked as if they owned the world — or didn’t care who did. The door creaked shut behind him.

She paid for the meal over Rosie’s objections, as a woman’s voice said, quite loudly, ‘— saw him in Monaco —‘

The barman shook his head. ‘Summerland’s a private estate.’

The woman was about Claire’s age, and looked as if she should have indeed been in Monaco, rather than a sleepy coastal village. Long straight hair, ombré eyebrows, false eyelashes, deeply tanned, high-heeled and perfumed. Heavy gold shone at wrist and neck. She was Instagram-perfect, and her voice twanged with upper-class vowels.

‘Well, if you know him,’ the man offered cynically, ‘he’s not driven away yet, you can just walk out and see him.’

The woman hesitated. ‘No, I want to surprise him.’ She smiled with bright, even teeth. ‘We rather lost touch. How long has he been here anyway?’

The barman didn’t sound as if he believed it for a moment. ‘Well, if you’re a friend, you can ring him. But as I say, Summerland’s private and he don’t take well to trespassers.’ He moved away to fill a pint glass.

Blushing with second-hand embarrassment, Claire herded a silently-giggling Rosie out of the pub, stopping in the deep porch and getting out her phone. She didn’t want the man to think she was following him. A faint scent of his cologne, sandalwood, incense, lingered.

‘I bet you anything she didn’t know him.’ Rosie thumbed her phone idly. ‘Or she’s an ex.’  
  
The purr of the Bentley’s engine sounded and the sleek car slid out onto the road.  
  
‘Claire...’  
  
‘Yes?’  
  
‘I’m not like that, am I?’  
  
She laughed. ‘Like what? Like Miss Instagram? Of course not!’ nudging her. ‘You’re hopeful. There’s a difference.’  
  
It was only a five minute walk back to the caravan and the little village, curling its way down toward the sea, was tree-lined and shady. The land slept; only one car passed them, a vintage Mercedes, gleaming silver, in perfect condition. Its top was down. The women from the bar was at the wheel, dark hair blowing.  
  
They passed a village shop-come-post office, hand-written signs announcing: ‘Free Range eggs, local produce.’

‘I can get milk here,’ Claire remarked. ‘Save the drive to the supermarket.’  
  
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, which was just what Claire had signed up for. The sparkle of the sun on the peaceful sea, the soft sough of the warm breeze in the trees was soporific. From where she sat, she looked across to the promontory of land that jutted out into the bay. Thick woods cloaked it almost entirely, but she could glimpse what she thought was a large, pale building among the trees.  
  
After a shower, they lazed some more as the sun turned the sea sparking gold and the placid sky streaked jade and violet. The breeze stilled and the first stars pricked out. From the wooded promontory, smothered lights gleamed. It intrigued her, that almost-peninsula, and she opened her iPad to Google Earth.  
  
Yes, a house, or rather a mansion, huge and sprawling among gardens, perhaps a conference centre or hotel; Google didn’t say.  
  
_Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again..._  
  
She flicked to Street View, moving along the coast road until she came to the turning and angled the view. Huge, wrought iron gates were closed shut under the shadow of vast trees. Hmm. A private estate? Owned by the black-haired Adonis in the Bentley? Summerland? Was it? She looked, but couldn’t find anything else that looked like a private estate within twenty miles.  
  
She closed the iPad, wondering if the Instagram girl had managed to gain access.  
  
She didn’t dream of Manderley that night. She dreamed, as she had before, of a cold sea sighing against lost shores, of a voice held in the curl of a wave, the spreading fretwork of foam, a voice that sang of grief and the fall of glory as the moon looked down, remote, pitiless.  
  
She woke only to the call of an owl, perhaps from the deep woods of the promontory, the distant breathing of the sea. Perhaps it was that which had triggered her dream. But she lay for a long time, aching with the ancient sorrow in the song. It was familiar, the voice, but her dream-shrouded brain groped into mist and slid, resistless, back into an untroubled sleep.  
  
  
  
She woke to the tap-tap of a bird walking on the caravan roof, followed by the scolding chatter of a magpie. Through the window came the scent of the sea and the warming land, hay, roses. Calm blue skies and greeted her as she took her coffee to the small verandah and sat down. The tide was out, leaving a gleaming fan of sand. Seagulls wheeled like snowflakes, and from somewhere came the distant, sound of a tractor, softened by the distance to a sleepy drone.

Rosie still slept, and Claire decided to walk down to the village shop to pick up milk, eggs and possibly bacon, for breakfast. The lane was littered with strands of hay, dusty, quiet, only a Land Rover passing her as she walked.  
The store was one of those post-offices-come-mini-marts that were becoming increasingly rare in villages, edged out by large supermarkets. It was a charming jumble, and the door opened to the sound of a tinkly bell.  
  
‘On holiday?’ the woman asked as she laid her purchases on the small counter.  
  
Claire smiled. ‘At Southview Park, yes.’  
  
‘Ah, yes. Madge and John’s first week. Do you like it?’  
  
‘It’s lovely, and what a view to wake up to.’ She slid her card into the reader. ‘What’s that big house on the promontory?’ She gestured vaguely.  
  
The woman’s face didn’t change, but something closed behind the dark eyes.  
‘Oh, that’s Summerland. Private, that is, love.’  
  
She’d been right then. ‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘I heard something about it in the pub,’ and took her time packing in case any more information was forthcoming. It wasn’t. The woman’s flat, tight-lipped smile raised Claire’s hackles. It was a smile that said the woman had been the recipient of not-so-casual questions about Summerland before, that Claire was just one in a long line of people who had tried to prise information from her.  
Claire almost regretted she’d not accepted the man’s help, could say airily, ‘Oh, yes I’ve met him, he gave me a lift.’  
  
Smiling to herself, she said a polite thank you, and left the shop.  
  
  
  
‘Intriguing,’ agreed Rosie, finishing her coffee. ‘You should have accepted his help, then we’d know all about him and his mysterious Summerland.’  
  
Claire shrugged. ‘It’s not that mysterious really, plenty of estates are private.’ Her eyes went to the window.  
  
‘But the locals seem...tight-lipped.’  
  
‘There’s nothing in that. He probably owns a lot of land round here; he might own the pub, the shop.’ She got up and transferred the plates to the sink, running hot water onto them. ‘Anything you want to do today?’  
  
She heard Rosie’s grin. ‘The beach,’ she said. ‘With a pair of binoculars.’  
  
‘Did you bring those?’ Claire asked, surprised.  
  
‘No, they were in a cupboard.’ Rosie slid the strap over her shoulder. ‘Might as well use them.’  
  
‘I’ll take my iPad,’ Claire decided. ‘It’s not bad for close-up photos.’  
  
They took the track down from the caravan to the little cove and found it empty but for a dog walker just leaving. Putting their things in a pile, they trotted down to the water (because you couldn’t go to a beach in summer without having a paddle) and found the water shockingly cold. Now and then, they both sent covert glances toward Summerland. It was only a quarter of a mile away and they could easily have walked to it at low tide then clambered up the rocks and into the trees.  
  
‘We’d get shot,’ Rosie giggled.  
  
‘It’s not the M.O.D.’ Claire objected. ‘Just private. And they wouldn’t shoot us, not in England, just escort us away.’  
  
‘Well, I bet it’s dodgy as hell, drug dealing or something.’ Rosie dried off her feet and pushed them back into her sandals.  
  
‘That’s so... _common_ ,’ Claire protested, half-laughing. ‘No, I’d rather him be a Max de Winter.’  
  
‘My literary friend,’ Rosie said fondly, raising the binoculars to her eyes. ‘My dearest darling. Of course you would. You’re not cynical enough.’  
  
‘Cynical enough not to accept his help in the car park.’  
  
‘And you can be so dumb, too.’  
  
Claire rolled her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t say that if I’d been found dead in a ditch.’  
  
‘Hmm. No, but I suppose not _all_ men are serial killers. Especially incredibly rich ones who look like gods. These binoculars are very good,’ she added, ignoring Claire’s mutter that she suspected incredibly rich people probably could get away with being serial killers, and what about Hannibal Lecter? ‘But you can’t see much. Except trees. And Google isn’t very forthcoming. The pictures of the house are pretty old, I think. It just says an estate in Devon formerly owned by the Ferrers family. Gorgeous old place.’  
  
Claire knew that; she’d looked herself. She brushed sand off her legs.  
‘Well, if I see him again, I’ll ask him.’ She still thought it was more likely he was just a fairly reclusive millionaire, and why not?  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

They wandered down to the pub that evening. Mellow golden light slanted through the small windows, and only a few locals were sitting over a drink in the bar. Taking their own out into the garden, they sat in the shade. Claire took out her phone for a shot of the picturesque old building. She liked to collect holiday photos; they were memories to look at through the long, grey winters.

A woman walked into the garden, straight across her shot. Miss Instagram, now in designer jeans and sparkly sandals. She settled herself at a table, took a long drink of something pale and fizzy, then looked across at Claire and Rosie.  
‘Hi,’ she said, and stood up again. ‘Mind if I sit with you?’

‘Not at all.’ Claire said over Rosie’s half-groan.

With a swirl of dark hair, a waft of expensive perfume, the woman sat down.  
‘Kate Barrington,’ she introduced herself.

‘I’m Claire. This is Rosie.’

Kate Barrington had very blue eyes, the whites chemically bleached, thought Claire.  
‘I’m a blogger,’ she said. ‘Ghosts, legends, folklore, that kind of thing. Can I —‘ she waved a hand, ‘interview you? Are you here on holiday?’

It was completely unexpected, until Claire remembered Rosie looked nothing like most peoples’ idea of an astrophysicist.  
‘Er...yes? Yes, we’re on holiday, at the Southview Caravan Park.’

‘I’m staying here.’ Kate waved toward the pub. ‘I saw you yesterday.’

‘Yes,’ Rosie agreed. ‘You were asking about that guy in the Bentley—‘

‘Van Apollyon.’

‘Claire’s spoken to him,’ Rosie volunteered over Claire’s strangled choke. _Apollyon._ Really? ‘She got a flat tyre, and he offered to help.’

Claire shifted, trying to kick Rosie’s ankle under the table as Kate Barrington turned enormous eyes on her.  
‘I only spoke to him for a few seconds,’ she said, hating the excusing tone of her voice. ‘And I said no. I didn’t know him. He seemed nice enough, though.’

‘Thank god you said no.’ Kate leaned toward her. ‘You might not be here now.’

‘What?’ Claire exclaimed, feeling her relaxation drain away in the wake of a chilly little shiver.

Kate Barrington tapped manicured nails on the table. ‘Well, this guy is such a _mystery._ ’ She took a quick sip of her drink. ‘No electronic footprint, a total ghost. Some people think he’s American, or maybe from Russia, or a drug baron from South America. There are rumours,’ she whispered, ‘that people have vanished around here.’

Claire glanced at Rosie. ‘And you wanted me to accept a lift from him.’

‘But didn’t you want to speak to him yesterday?’ Rosie asked Kate brightly. ‘If he’s so dangerous—‘ She raised her brows interrogatively.

‘Not speak to him, just find out about him. For one thing, there’s no way Van Apollyon is his real name. I Googled it. Do you know what — who — Apollyon is supposed to be?’

‘I know,’ Claire said as Rosie looked mystified. ‘ _Revelations_ , the Destroyer, the angel of the Abyss.’

‘That,’ Rosie said after a moment, ‘is _really_ hardcore.’

Claire couldn’t help laughing.

‘But,’ Kate flapped her hands. ‘Whoever would call themselves that?’

‘An actor? A musician? I don’t know!’

‘But he’s not, the name is nowhere on the internet. And then, there’s Summerland. You know it’s a kind of concept of the afterlife, like the Isles of the Blest?’ She started flicking through her phone. Claire looked at Rosie. Rosie looked back at her with an infinitesimal shrug.  
‘And it’s as private as Porton Down.* Okay, not quite, but you get what I’m saying? And absolutely no-one here will talk about him or Summerland.’

Claire thought about the woman in the shop closing down. ‘Hmm, but well...if he’s rich and private and has a strange name, that doesn’t exactly prove anything, does it? He may just be eccentric. If you’re wealthy enough you can be.’

‘I’m sure it’s more than that.’ She held out her phone. ‘Look, it’s an old OS map of this area. There’s a tumulus, sometimes thought to be an entrance to the Otherworld.’

Claire very carefully didn’t look at Rosie this time.  
Kate rattled on, ‘But more than anything, it’s him. Yesterday he was wearing dark glasses, but I managed to get a picture of him in Monaco.’ She took her phone back, flicked through a few more pictures and passed it back.

The shot had obviously been taken from above, a first floor window, perhaps, and zoomed in. There was a suggestion of shimmering light, the sea, maybe, white buildings. Kate had caught him with his head lifted, like, Claire thought, a wolf scenting something on the wind. _He knew she was taking pictures_.

Without the shield of dark glasses, his face was astonishing. Claire thought of the first time she had seen Mark Lowry though, as time went on, she almost imagined that he was...dumbing down his looks, casting a veil over them, that she could only see him properly with peripheral vision. Of course that was whimsy, but in Van Apollyon, she thought she was seeing an unblurred version, all hard, too-vivid lines. It was like a punch to the stomach; it fizzed through her head in the way some music does, heating her cheeks, burning in her eyes like a peculiar kind of sorrow.

Rosie said nothing, just stared.

It was his eyes, quite apart from anything else. Under perfect black brows, the shot had managed to capture their colour: deep, shining purple under outrageous lashes.

Aware her mouth was open, Claire shut it and pushed the phone over the bench. She felt as if she had intruded into the man’s personal space and it compelled her to say, ‘Sorry, but I don’t think you should take photos of people without their knowledge or permission...and anyhow, even if you can’t find anything about him on the internet — which there won’t be, if you don’t even have his real name — it doesn’t mean he’s unknown. _If_ he was some kind of criminal, the authorities probably know everything.’

Kate shook her head, a mulish set to her pretty mouth. ‘I don’t think,’ she said stubbornly, ‘that he’s _normal._ ’

Rosie nodded. ‘Well, he does look rather like my idea of a god,’ she mused. It was true enough, if a god were to have expertly cut short hair.  
‘I have to ask, though: why are you so interested in him?’

‘You did look at the photo?’ Kate Barrington demanded, wide-eyed. ‘It was a couple of years ago when I read _American Gods_ , and then later that year I was in Florida, and I saw him, and I immediately thought that he couldn’t be human.’ She was starting at the phone. ‘I...followed him a bit, and one day he got a plane to the UK...’

‘You do know,’ Claire interrupted gently, over Rosie’s desperate attempt to smother giggles, ‘that stalking comes under harassment?’ And was almost impossible to prosecute unless it ended in violence or death, a fact with had always infuriated Claire — and any woman who had ever been stalked. But, as she remembered almost six foot four of lean male power, Claire didn’t think Van Apollyon needed to worry about physical violence. At least not from Kate Barrington, and possibly not from anyone not carrying a lethal weapon.

‘ _Listen_!’ Kate took absolutely no notice. “So I rang my cousin and she agreed to go to Heathrow to see the arrivals come in. She never saw him. He got on the plane but he didn’t get off.’

‘Wrong plane,’ Rosie gasped. Kate ignored her.  
‘So then I went to Monaco and saw him there, just back in April. Pure chance. I got a room at the hotel and bribed the cleaner a thousand euros to find out his name and, if possible, where he lived.’ Claire stared at her in horrified fascination. ‘She found his name, or that name, and a picture on his iPad of a place called Summerland. So lucky it wasn’t locked. It was an old picture from Google. As I said, I drew a blank with the name, but I found Summerland. So here I am. And he _he_ is.’ She smiled and calmly finished her drink as if everything she had said made perfect sense.

‘That’s er...all very interesting,’ Claire said pacifically. ‘But we really know nothing about —‘

‘But you saw him, spoke to him.’

‘Hardly at all. He seemed friendly enough, and we saw him in the pub last night talking to the landlord, so he’s obviously not entirely reclusive—‘

‘The locals,’ Kate lowered her voice impressively, ‘won’t talk about him at all.’

Claire and Rosie avoided one another’s eyes again. It was rather embarrassing to realise that the only difference between themselves and Kate Barrington was that they lacked the money, or possibly the gall to stalk the mysterious man. Not that they would have; they had just...speculated. There was a line.

‘Perhaps they don’t know very much,’ Rosie said in a neutral voice.

‘Do you _know_ what it’s like living in the country? Everyone knows everything about their neighbours.’

‘Might not have been here long, in that case.’

‘Well, anyhow,’ Kate dropped her voice still further. ‘I’m getting a drone—‘

Claire gaped at her. ‘A— you _can’t_ just fly a drone over his home,’ she hissed. ‘It’s probably illegal.’ She didn’t know what the regulations were for drones these days, but she was sure you couldn’t just fly them willy-nilly over private property.

‘Anyhow, they make a noise,’ Rosie offered. ‘They sound like huge bees! Not exactly subtle, is it?’

Kate waved the objection aside. ‘The thing is, if it were just three girls on the beach playing around with a drone that just happened to fly over Summerland, no-one would take much notice—‘

‘No!’ Claire and Rosie chorused.

‘Oh, I’ll pay you for your time.’

‘No.’ Claire rose and picked up her rucksack. ‘Sorry, but we came here just to relax and we’re not getting involved. It seems to me you’ve spied on this man, stalked him and now—‘

‘Oh, really—‘

‘Claire’s right,’ Rosie said. ‘It really is really _not_ on. Anyhow, can’t you just find out who owns Summerland? There’s a record of _that_ , surely.’

Kate flung out her hands. ‘I’ve tried.’

‘Well, I’m sorry we can’t help,’ Claire said firmly. ‘Goodbye.’

They walked away, rather quickly. Claire was angry at the casual assumption her time could be bought, the sheer _presumption_ of the woman (clearly used to getting what she wanted) and was conscious of the feeling that if she _had_ known anything, she would not have helped Kate Barrington. Not that Van Apollyon whatever-his-name-really-was had looked in need of protection; rather he had the dangerous, lacquered look of a young James Bond. But still...

‘I don’t honestly think his name’s Apollyon,’ Rosie commented as they wandered up the lane. ‘That was just a name that poor cleaner got off his iPad, an email address or something, or even just a note. No wonder she can’t find anything about him. A thousand euros, though. She must be rolling in it!’

‘More than likely,’ Claire murmured. ‘But what I think is that she insinuated that I was almost abducted by a possible murderer, and sent some poor cleaner into his room.’

‘Too much money,’ Rosie nodded. ‘I almost don’t blame her, though. For her rampant curiosity, I mean. And I bet she’d have accepted the offer _you_ turned down. She was just warning off the possible competition.’ She winked.

‘Oh, please! And it’s not curiosity. She’s obsessed. Stalking him— I was _definitely_ uncomfortable.’ Claire slanted her friend a weak smile. ‘When I first met Mark, I was tempted, you know, I was intrigued...okay, more than intrigued. And when he vanished those weeks before Christmas, I did look for him.’

‘But you didn’t _stalk_ him. Being concerned about someone, even interested, isn’t the same,’ Rosie said reassuringly, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘Now me, and Harrison and Theo, _we_ all stalked Mark electronically. Or tried to.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t it weird that they look quite alike, Mark Lowry and this guy, and are both electronic ghosts?’

Yes, Claire thought. She said, ‘Hmm,’ noncommittally.

The caravan seemed like a haven against strangeness. The scent of hay from the cut fields inland was heavy, dreamlike, grounding her to the good, rich earth. Claire made herself not look at Summerland for at least half-an-hour, while Rosie tapped on her iPad. At last she sat back and said, ‘I could find out anything she talked about in ten minutes. And did. Blogger my arse.’

‘I thought the same, but then few people think you’re an astrophysicist,’ Claire said wryly. ‘so it felt rather hypocritical to jump to conclusions.’

Rosie smiled. ‘Sometimes intuition is right. I’ll tell you one thing though: The only Kate Barrington’s I can find are definitely not her! This Van guy’s not the only person using a false name.’  
  
**  
**

OooOooO

 

 

* Porton Down in Wiltshire (UK) is a research facility. It also deals with chemical and biological research and testing.


	2. ~ The Sleeper, Dreaming ~

  
  


**~ The Sleeper, Dreaming ~**

 

 

~ Dusk came down over sea and sky in hazy silence and a bold, white moon dominated the stars as the light slowly faded. They left the caravan door and windows open in the warmth of the night. It was so quiet here, Claire thought appreciatively; the only other people on-site were an older couple who seemed to spend most of their time walking. When the school holidays began it would be busier, the small beach shrill with the shouts of children.

A little owl called, _kwik-kwik-kwik_ and then a vast silence fell. The sea seemed motionless, as if it had drawn in its tides, was holding its breath. From the wooded promontory of Summerland came the notes of a nightingale, a resonant, entrancing sound, yet Claire found herself oddly disturbed by its loneliness. She stepped outside, stared across the bay to the dim lights that winked through the trees. The nightingale sang and the moon silvered the sea; in an odd, optical illusion it looked as if the light came from underwater...She took a quick breath as a sense of _deja-vu_ struck her. _What is it, what is it_?

Abruptly she shook herself, turned away. She was becoming as strange as the woman who called herself Kate Barrington, and didn’t relish the comparison. As for the man, Van Apollyon-whoever, perhaps there was indeed something odd about him, but it was none of her business.

She went to bed, determinedly pushing the intrusive thoughts away, but sleep was elusive. When it came, a dream was there, as if it had lurked on the borders of her mind, waiting.

She ran across the ruin of a world. In the way of dreams, she knew there had been a war, and this wreck of fuming rock and raped land was its aftermath. Before her a tumultuous sea roared against shattered rocks in booming flurries of spray. A storm-sky arched over all, glowering black and grey. Lightning flickered among the clouds.

She ran toward that killing sea, flung spume salt as blood on her lips, ran toward the man standing on the rocks; a tall straight figure, long hair lashing around him. In his hand he held a blazing light and as ran, crying out, _No! Stop!_ he raised his arm and threw.

The light burned a shining path through the air, curving, dropping, falling...As it struck the ocean, white power split air and water in a concussion of brilliance. The sea burned for a blazing moment and then, slowly, the light dropped away, sinking into the deeper waters, fading, fading...lost...

The man gave a cry as if mortally wounded and dropped to his knees. Claire had almost reached him, almost touched him, when a rogue wave struck her, drenching her in icy salt, sweeping her off her feet into the rage of the sea, rolling her like a rag into its murderous embrace. The roar of it filled her ears. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe...

She gasped, coughed. She was soaked through, heart pounding, retching salt water that burned in her eyes, her nose...

A voice. ‘You’re all right, just wet.’

Coughing racked her. She felt herself lifted up. Automatically, she hooked her arms around the man’s neck, smelled the faint tang of leather, spices, sandalwood dark as a spell. His skin was smooth, warm.

‘What...what happened?’

‘You were in the sea, lady.’  
  
There were shadows, the scent of pine, coolness on her cold skin, an ascent. He bore her as lightly as if she had been a child, without effort or stress. She saw lights, the tall, pale walls of a house, a doorway spilling gold light.  
  
‘I was...in the sea?’  
  
‘Don’t worry, you need to get dry.’  
  
A fan of stairs up which he ran like an athlete, a corridor and then a room, a bed, a sofa; warm, bright colours.  
  
‘Sit down.’ She was set gently to her feet next to the sofa and her legs gave out. ‘I’ll get Nanny to bring you some tea. You can shower in the bathroom. There’s a housecoat behind the door. I would get out of those wet things if I were you.’  
  
He walked to the door as she pushed ropes of wet hair from her face. For a moment she thought he was a complete stranger, someone with long, long hair that fell from a high tail, dressed in black leather. She blinked stinging eyes and the fancy faded into simple jeans, a white shirt, short, thick hair. The door closed behind him. She sniffed and coughed and a bubble of helpless, half-hysterical laughter rose in her throat, then died. She heard, sharp as hammer strokes in her mind, _A mystery, a total ghost....people have disappeared around here..._ and her heart jolted sickeningly. What if she _had_ been brought to the home of a...a...madman? A killer? _Don’t think about it!_ What the hell had happened, and was she going to _do_? Had he actually said he was getting _Nanny_ to bring her some tea? That sounded...bizarre, and the dream, the dream was still within her like a pain felt by a sleeper in the night.  
  
She got up, peered into the bathroom. It was spotlessly clean, even luxurious _Don’t think about that film, or that one, either..._ with an array of toiletries. No handy carving knives or guns left lying around fully loaded. _Oh, stop it!_ But it would be sensible to have something she could use as a possible weapon. She’d always groaned at the women in films who seemed so _stupid_ when caught in these kind of situations. If this even was a situation.  
  
Quickly, she stripped off her pyjamas and threw them into the bath, then wrapped herself into the house robe; it was long, warm and banished the chill, though her wet hair dripped down her back. It smelled of the sea. The sea...a glorious white light, skies of storm, the man...outrageous sorrow. _What was I doing in the sea_?  
  
Back in the bedroom she cast about for something to use in a fight. Her eyes scanned over a bookcase, sideboard, a few ornaments...There! On a shelf of the bookcase, a glass paperweight sat upon a stand, a dark sphere shot with iridescence, like blue goldstone. It was rather too big for one hand, but better than nothing.  
  
She cracked open the door. The passageway branched left and right and a faint glow of light from the left drew her along to the landing above the fan of stairs. One could imagine women sweeping down them in flowing ball gowns. Claire, less dignified, and less hampered, ran down the flight of steps and through the webs of disbelief.  
_Apollyon, Angel of the Abyss, mysterious millionaire, the man by that storm-sea..._ She had been so close, almost touched him, almost _known._... Known what? _What was I doing in the sea?_  
  
The black-white tiled hall was empty, the double doors shut. Looking over her shoulder, Claire attempted to open them without success and, panicking now, stared wildly around. From deeper in the house came a light. _Back door..._  
  
She flew past the bottom of the stairs, down a hallway, and stopped dead as she heard voices.  
  
‘....take the tea, Nanny.’ His voice, a thread of laughter woven in it.  
  
‘Well, I will, sir, but what I say is, what with that other one sniffing around, and now this...!’ A woman’s voice, a West-country burr cosy as a Christmas candle even when grumbling.  
  
‘Now, Nanny, this one is not the same. Don’t worry.’  
  
Claire felt as if she had walked into Brideshead Revisited. Surely no-one was called ‘Nanny’ these days. And his voice; she had thought it a perfect, well-bred English accent but there was a hint of something else —  
  
‘Well, you’ve never been wrong before, sir, but they’re getting cleverer these days, and if they manage to sneak in the house, and post on the Internet, you’ll be in trouble.’ A sound of clattering.  
  
‘I won’t be in any trouble, Nanny. Don’t fuss. No-one has ever found anything out.’ Calmly. ‘And I’ve dealt with...intrusions before.’  
  
A finger of ice slid down Claire’s spine. She took a soft step back, another.  
  
‘And swimming in the sea at night. She’ll have caught her death.’  
  
‘I hope she’ll have showered by now, but you take the tea up, dearest Nanny.’ Again that hint of hidden laughter. ‘And bring her down here when she’s drunk it. I’ll heat up the soup.’  
  
Claire ran on icy bare feet. The paperweight was slick in her damp grasp; she would use it to smash a window if she had to.  
  
Across the hall into another room, enormous with a sense of space. The air smelled of faintly old incense, cut flowers. Moonlight bled through half-closed curtains, picked out the dark shapes of furniture — but not the stool she tripped over, measuring her length on the carpet. It sounded, to her over-sensitive ears, like the fall of an elephant.  
  
She gathered herself up, swearing under her breath, casting around for the paperweight she had dropped.  
The room flooded with light. She flinched, freezing.  
  
The man stood in the doorway, looking at her with raised black brows.  
Claire backed away instinctively.  
  
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.  
  
Again, she experienced a wild desire to laugh. Or scream. Or both.  
‘I’d...like to leave, please.’  
  
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But you only had to ask.’  
  
‘Now, please.’ It was unreal. Her whole instinct and upbringing demanded that she be calm and polite, a pleasant ‘guest’, but what good would that be if she was in real danger? Good manners could be crippling, perhaps deadly. She knew, vaguely, that she was in shock; perhaps that was a good thing.  
  
Without the concealing sunglasses, in the flood of light, Claire really _saw_ him for the first time, and far clearer than the photograph Kate Barrington had taken. Her mind screeched to a halt. She thought of what Kate had said about him and understood it suddenly. Because she really did not think, now, that this man was _just_ a reclusive millionaire, or a drug lord or even, she admitted, a serial killer. Although he might indeed be able to kill, and easily. He wasn’t...wasn’t human. He couldn’t be. Not looking like that. There was a power in those unnatural eyes that went far beyond anything she had ever seen or imagined. She wrenched her eyes away from them. Black tattoos ran down each arm, slashing curves, sharp as knives. Barbaric, oddly beautiful.  
  
Then he smiled, white teeth flashing. The most brilliant of smiles, and wholly charming, yet it was kind, too, reassuring.  
‘I really am not going to hurt you, Claire,’ he said in that compelling voice. And on her spoken name, Claire tasted steel and fire and blood and incense and old, old grief that could level mountains. She heard trapped screaming, the snap of whips, of metal-on-metal. There was smoke, fire, and over it, starlight. Her vision seemed filled with light, fire. She saw him standing in some chamber, immense and dark, clad in black, his hair swept up into a high tail that poured to his knees. He whirled between tall pillars on which sacrifices hung, dancing, killing with precise strokes of twin swords. He went down on one knee before a figure on a throne...She reeled before the onslaught of power, impossible, pitiless. The eyes were like heated knives under her skin.  
  
‘Come,’ she heard the man say. ‘Perhaps you would like a whisky.’ She heard the chink of a glass, felt it pressed, cold and hard, into her hand. ‘You are a most unusual women, Clare.’ The whisky traced a hot-mellow path down her throat. ‘You dream of the forgotten.’  
  
‘The... _what_?’  
  
A woman came into the room; a large woman wrapped in an enormous quilted dressing gown in shocking pink. It was so incongruous to the situation that Claire just gaped. She might have been any age from fifty to seventy, hair tightly curled and iron grey, face round as an apple and as rosy. A face to trust. She was carrying a small tea-tray and started to speak as soon as she crossed the threshold.  
‘There you are! And here’s your tea, although why you couldn’t wait in your room...’ She slapped the tray down on a sideboard. ‘Drink it up now, and I’ll run you a hot bath.’ Noting the whiskey she sniffed in disproval. ‘And she shouldn’t be drinking whiskey, neither, sir!’  
  
She steamed out of the room purposefully. Claire stared after her. ‘Nanny?’ she said weakly.  
  
‘Well, she’s not _my_ nanny, but she has been a nanny, and that’s what she likes to be called.’ He handed her the tea. ‘She’s right, you should get into a hot bath.’  
  
‘I—‘  
  
‘I would have taken you back to your caravan, but you were much closer to the house,’ he said. ‘I thought it more important you get warm and dry as quickly as possible. The sea is still very cold this time of year.’  
  
Questions fought for her attention. She said, ‘How...How do you know where I’m staying?’  
  
‘This is a small village,’ he shrugged. ‘And the first year that site has been open.’  
  
She said, out of nowhere, or everywhere. ‘Is your name Van Apollyon?’  
  
He grinned. ‘No, of course not. Well, my name _is_ Vanimórë. Apollyon was just...a...a private joke if you will.’  
  
‘Then who are you?’ _And what_?  
  
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I will talk to you, but after you have got warm and dry. Do you want to call your friend?’ he slipped a phone from his back pocket, offered it to her.  
  
She thought of Rosie, deep asleep, she hoped, and even if she woke up, why would she look for Claire? _Unless I left the door open or something. What the hell was I doing on the beach, in the sea. And who was that man_? She didn’t sleepwalk, or could never remember doing so. _But if anything happens, Rosie will know where I am..._  
  
Her eyes rose to his. A clock ticked in the room like a metronome. He stopped, picked something up and offered it with a little quirk of a smile. The paperweight slid into her hand.  
  
‘You were dreaming, sleepwalking into the sea. You woke too quickly. You are in shock. It is sometimes dangerous,’ he murmured, ‘to awaken the sleeper.’  
  
_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock._ The purple eyes were unblinking.  
  
She took the phone, glad she knew Rosie’s number off the top of her head.  
  
  


OooOooO

 

Not quite an hour later she was sitting in the kitchen drinking a smoking-hot home-made soup.

Nanny had chivvied her (there was no more apt word) into the bath, tucked her, now dry and warm, back into her housecoat, slipped a pair of fluffy bed socks onto her feet and then a pair of moccasin slippers, probably Nanny’s own. Apparently satisfied her charge was not going to faint or develop a raging temperature, Nanny, like a purposeful little steam-engine, chivvied Claire again, this time down to the kitchen and served her soup from a simmering pot on the Aga. There was no sign of the man, Vanimórë, and with every mouthful Claire felt more grounded, almost ashamed and bewildered by her early panic. It was still there, she felt, but almost...out of reach. Perhaps that was partly Nanny’s influence. It was almost impossible to think herself in danger with Nanny bustling around.

The kitchen was huge, a leftover from the days when cooks and servants had toiled here, but completely modern and unexpectedly cosy. There was a perfectly enormous Aga that gave out a pleasant heat, deep Belfast sinks, and the floor was worn flags, but all the appliances were up-to-date. Two comfortable armchairs were angled close to a fire. On a low table next to one of them was an embroidery-frame and sewing box which Claire supposed were Nanny’s. A black-and-white cat curled on the other seat, asleep. Pale green blinds shut out the darkness beyond the windows. An open door showed a glimpse of a utility room with coats hanging. All very normal.

The whir and grind of a coffee machine broke the quiet, filled the room with a delicious aroma.

‘There,’ Nanny said, placing coffee, cream and sugar on the table. ‘ _Not_ that you should have coffee, miss. You won’t sleep a wink.’

Claire didn’t think she would sleep a wink anyhow. She looked at the clock: Nearly 2.a.m. It seemed a very long time since she had gone to bed.

‘That was delicious, thank you.’ She pushed away her bowl and sipped the coffee.

‘Well, there’s a bit of colour in your cheeks now.’ Nanny transferred the dish to a built-in dishwasher and poured herself a giant china cup of tea, bringing it to the table and adding sugar. ‘ _Don’t_ you be swimming at night again, miss. The sea’s still cold and there are tides around the Point. I can’t even tell you how many people have drowned over the years. The bay is safe, but not near the Point.’

Claire considered the impossibility of telling her she had had no intention of swimming, that she had been dreaming. She opted for a noncommittal sound of agreement.  
‘Um...Nanny?’

‘Miss?’

‘Is there anyone else in the house beside you and...er...’

‘Only his lordship and me at the moment.’ She took a long draught of tea. ‘There’s the Benton’s who do the cleaning, Bob and Tony and Kerry Peters in the grounds, but they live in the village. His lordship likes to spend the summer in the country, and a good thing that is, with his gallivanting around. Used to be peaceful here, still is, but for the folk trying to poke and pry in here, bold as you like and using all sorts of tricks. People are so nosy! And don’t you be blabbing about anything you see and hear, miss!’

Rather startled at this unjust attack, wondering _his lordship_? Claire said hotly, ‘I haven’t seen or heard anything!’

‘But you were down in the Drawing Room, when his lordship found you,’ Nanny pointed out.

‘I wasn’t poking around, I was trying to get out,’ Claire defended herself. ‘I couldn’t open the front door.’

‘Trying to get out? Well, you might have just asked.’ Nanny swallowed another gulp of tea. ‘And that old door’s difficult, there’s a knack to it. There was no need to creep around in the dark and in your bare feet, catching your death!’

Claire felt her face getting hot. ‘Well, I don’t know his...er...lordship. And no-one knew where I was. He just carried me out of the sea and...’

Nanny’s small, round eyes stared for a long moment. ‘You were afraid of him?’ She sounded as if it was the most unbelievable notion in the world.

‘Strange men...you know...’

A snort. ‘Oh yes, you were thinking his lordship would ravish you or lock you away, or murder you and stick your body in the freezer.’ She rose from the table. ‘His lordship, I’ll have you know is a _gentleman_.’

A sudden desire to giggle rose in Claire’s throat. ‘I think I was a slightly shocked at nearly drowning,’ she said with a touch of sarcasm, earning another glare. ‘Then finding myself here. No-one talks about this place or about...him.’

‘Do you know how many people try to sneak in here, swim, on a boat, through the woods?’ Nanny huffed indignantly. Claire shook her head. ‘Pretending they got lost? And that other one hanging around now—‘

‘Do you mean a woman called Kate Barrington?’

‘Hah! That’s her. A reporter from one of those trashy papers.’

‘Is she?’ That might explain something. As Rosie had said: ‘Blogger my arse.’

‘Apparently.’ Nanny placed the cups into the dishwasher and shut it with a bang. ‘Now, I’ll fill you a bottle to take to bed.’

‘I can’t stay here, Nanny.’ Claire got up. ‘I told my friend I would come back as soon as possible.’

‘You can ring her.’ Nanny waved to a phone and hooked down a hot water bottle from a rack. ‘Tell her you’re staying the night. What you need is to get to bed now, and have your sleep out.’

The back door opened. The man (or whatever he was) came in and Claire felt her throat go dry, her impression in the drawing room only reinforced. No man looked like this, moved like this, _felt_ like this, as if the Earth itself were too small from him. His steps were silent, yet she felt as if they shook the room like thunder.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked with a smile.

‘Thank you, Nanny’s been very kind. I was just saying I should be going.’ She wiggled her toes in the slippers. Better than nothing, she supposed. The way was not all that far, and she could walk along the beach. The moon was full.

Nanny, flicking on the kettle, sniffed. ‘She don’t trust you, sir, thinks you’ll cut her throat and throw her in the sea or something.’

‘Oh, dear.’ His eyes danced. ‘Well, I do not blame you for being wary, lady, but I can assure you I don’t mean any harm. And we do have things to talk about. I can take you home after, if you wish. Nanny, go to bed, now.’

‘I’m going to sit right there, sir.’ She gestured to the chair and embroidery. ‘Since miss don’t trust you. Don’t keep her up all night, either.’ She deflated into the cushions and bent her head over her embroidery frame.

‘Okay,’ Claire said, slowly, reluctantly. ‘Who _are_ you? And why did Kate Barrington think you were called Van Apollyon?’

He laughed. From the chair came Nanny’s gentle snores.  
‘Oh, I knew the woman who calls herself Kate Barrington wanted to find something, so I just put the name up on my iPad to give her something to think about. Which is not password locked, so makes it easier. If I want anyone to find anything I always put it there or on my phone.’

‘Oh,’ Claire said bemusedly.

‘There _are_ a few people who know who I am, my real name,’ he said, ‘just not the general public. It is not...necessary.’

Claire thought she had now walked into a spy thriller rather than a horror film. ‘You’re in deep cover?’

‘You might say that.’ He sounded amused.

‘And Nanny knows? Sorry, but she seems rather...garrulous to keep a secret.’

‘Nanny knows.’ He glanced over at the sleeping woman with a faint smile. ‘Or at least she know a little. She came with the house, one might say. She _was_ a nanny here, and the people who owned it were old-fashioned gentry, the kind who would not turn out old retainers, old servants. But they were in rather a lot of financial trouble and when they died, the house went to a grandson who only wanted to sell it. But there was Nanny. ‘ He slid a cup under the coffee machine and pressed a button. ‘She didn’t understand, you see, she had lived here most of her life, never married, had no living relatives, and had never thought about what to do if she had to leave. When I heard the house was going on the market, I came to see it, and here was Nanny, in her old rooms, completely confused, only eating because some of the village people brought her food. And,’ he spread his hands. ‘Here she is. In her old rooms and quite happy, although she does bemoan the fact that we don’t have enough visitors. I think she sometimes believes me to be old Lord Ferrers, at other times one of their sons. She lives half in the past, but in her mind, it doesn’t matter what or who I am, she is simply loyal. It is the only thing she knows how to be.’

‘That’s...’ Claire searched for words. ‘very kind of you.’ _And what are you_?

‘What could one do?’

A lot of things, she thought, but it seemed he hadn’t. ‘She doesn’t seem confused, really. But she is very sharp in your defence.’

He gave a charming downward-looking smile. ‘She is much better than she was. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s or dementia, she just prefers, I believe, to live in her own world. It’s quite harmless. Now, Claire, I thank you for remaining here so I could speak with you.’ He moved to the table, sat down opposite her, clasping his hands on the tabletop. They were slim, elegant. Claire almost leaned back at the impact of his eyes. In the light, they seemed to glow red at the centre. ‘I am searching for something. For two things. And so are others. I do not want those others to find them.’  
‘And you, Claire James, you have been drawn into this search. You know what these things are, although you may not realise you know it. You dream of the forgotten.’

Her nails dug into her palms. She said convulsively: ‘What? What is the _forgotten_?’

He blinked slowly, like a cat. ‘A Silmaril of Fëanor,’ he said. ‘Maglor Fëanorion. I think you know him. Don’t you, Claire?’ He tilted his beautiful head, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. ‘Where is he?’

 

 

OooOooO

  


  



	3. ~ The Sleeper, Awakened ~

  
  
  


**~ The Sleeper, Awakened ~**

 

 

~ An alarm began to buzz, shocking, imperative. The man’s head went up. He came to his feet like a whip, Nanny woke with a snort, and Claire was up out of chair and kitchen quicker than a scalded cat. She found the utility room door and shot out of the house. The odd (and, she thought, now) unnatural calm had not survived those last words. Now she was completely certain she was in the hands of a madman whom had probably drugged her whiskey in the drawing room to keep her co-operative.

Disoriented, not knowing where to go, she ran toward the trees, smelled pine-needles, felt them sponge-soft under her slippered feet. Her one thought was that the promontory the house stood on was not huge and it was not that far to the caravan park. Which way, though? Which way?

She dodged through the trees, her heart hammering so hard in her ears she prayed she wouldn’t collapse. Something banged against her thigh and she remembered she had dropped the paperweight into the deep pocket of the housecoat. It still might come in useful. Stopping for a moment, she pressed against a tree-bole, nails digging into the bark. The clean scent of pine-resin rose as she strained her hearing for sounds of pursuit. There was nothing, although she had already seen the man walked soundlessly, a thought that gave her no comfort. A noise caught her attention, then, so ordinary and everyday she could almost love it: the sweep-and-fade of a distant car engine.

The road then. She could follow it to the caravan park if she could just get out. But those gates...and what if there was an electrified fence? She had not seen any on Google, but the trees might have hidden it. She bit her lip until it bled, taking deep breaths. There was no way she was going back toward the house so keep going, just keep going.  
At the back of her mind, clamouring for the attention she would not give it words were whirling, mad and impossible. _A Silmaril of Fëanor. Maglor Fëanorion. I think you know him, think you know him, think you know him._

 _Maglor Fëanorion. The Silmarillion. A book, just a book_. And she saw, in her mind’s eye, a man’s beautiful face, a hand terribly scarred in a pattern that might have been left by a burning jewel...

She launched herself out of the pines. The moon turned the landscape monochrome, with threatening shadows and bleached patches of light. A long path stretched ahead of her between the trees and Claire sprinted along it until it faded into another belt of woodland.  
She paused again for breath and to listen, and her heart nearly stopped as a shrilling scream sounded behind her. _Only a fox,_ she reasoned, but her fear was now too great for logic. She had become a hunted creature, creeping from shadow to shadow now, out-of-breath and terrified. Nights always brought back an ancient world, one where humans were not the top of the food chain, when they huddled around fires to chase away the dark and the things that lurked in it.  
Something stirred in the trees above her, a twig snapped and fell, wings flapped overhead.

‘Claire!’

She went down into a crouch, made herself as small as possible, her eyes wide.

‘Claire! Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Don’t answer me. Stay where you are.’

With a half-sob, she jogged on, bursting out of the trees onto tarmac. The road to the house. Wildly, she looked up and down it, saw nothing and ran again, a stitch building in her side. Ahead, vast trees cast pools of shadow over the road. She almost collided with the gates. They were firmly shut, as one cautious attempt informed her, and she half-pulled herself sideways along them, past the pillars into which they were set. There was an old wall beyond, higher than her head and she felt tears on her cheeks as she groped along it. The trees had been cut back a little; there was no cover.

It seemed endless, that wall, stretching ahead, unclimbable (at least to her) a barrier between the sane world of everyday life, and a nightmare that she expected, any moment, to come out of the dark. Again, and closer now, she heard the hum of a car. It seemed as far away as the impersonal, ghostly moon.

Her nerves were at cracking-point when she saw the wall’s height lessen, almost crumbling down to less than three feet. She threw herself at it, knocking her toes, scratching her hands, but it was rough, tumbled, and easy enough to climb. On a good day she would have done it with ease. This wasn’t a good day, and she half fell over, picking herself up, one hand clamped to her side as she limped through the trees toward the road.

She had come too far, she thought, thinking of her Google search. She would have to go _back_ , past the gates. The thought almost made her vomit. She bent over, sucking in breath. There was no alternative. _Keep to the shadows._

A car turned the bend, its headlights raking her. She saw a flash of pale metal and froze, the blood pounding in her ears, as it pulled up.  
A voice shouted. ‘Get in.’

A woman’s voice. Kate Harrington’s voice. Kate Harrington, unlikely saviour. Footsteps, the scent of perfume and a hand on her arm.  
‘Come on! Quickly.’

She tumbled into the car, and Kate took off down the road. The benign night air swept over them. Kate reached for the seatbelt, fumbling.

‘Don’t worry, you won’t need that, you’re just through the village, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Thank you!’

‘No problem,’ Kate shouted. ‘What did I tell you about him? What did I tell you?’

Nothing, really, Claire thought, still catching her breath. The car raced past the still-closed gates of Summerland. Kate laughed. Her long hair was ruffled by the breeze; she looked wide awake, perfectly made-up.

‘I think you were right,’ Claire croaked.

‘Darling, _I know._ ’ The Mercedes purred up the road toward the village and the blessed safety of the caravan park. Except it wasn’t safe and Claire had no intention of staying there any longer than it took her to pack her suitcase and leave.

‘I don’t know about you, but I am _leaving_.’ She groped in her pockets, pulled out the heavy glass paperweight. A memento of horror.  
She lifted it to drop it out of the car — and her breath stopped in her throat. The black glass was swirling with colour, like galaxies moving under the surface, blue-white, gold, brilliant. She dropped it into her lap as if it had scalded her.

The car slowed, stopped too abruptly. Claire put out her hands to save herself.  
‘Where did you get that?’ Kate’s voice snapped. ‘In Summerland?’

Claire looked at her, startled. ‘I...yes, I picked it up.’ And he...he’d given it back to her as if he understood she wanted a weapon.

Kate slammed a hand against the steering wheel. ‘I wonder where he found it? I wonder if he’s used it? Ah, my Lord, you will be _very_ pleased.’

Confusion resurfaced in a sickening wave. ‘What?’ Claire whispered her mouth paper-dry. My Lord? ‘I thought you didn’t know him?’

‘ _Him_? Oh, I know Vanimórë, or did once. And he once bowed to my Lord, too.’ A creamy smile curved Kate’s mouth as she gazed into the dark beyond the headlights. ‘But he has not seen me for a very long time. And I am not quite the same. Even so, he is suspicious, and I never got as far as you did.’ Her sudden purring chuckle raised the hairs on Claire’s neck. The sensation of nightmare was deepening again, strangling her throat. The car began to move.

‘Why you, I wonder?’ Her brows arched. ‘Well, no doubt, my Lord will be able to find out what he wishes to know. He is _exceptionally_ persuasive. You _will_ tell him.’ She put her foot down on the accelerator; the first cottages rolled past and Claire felt a terrible, lonely envy for the safe, innocent sleepers behind those sturdy walls.

‘I don’t know what you _mean_ ,’ she shouted at the woman. ‘I don’t know _anything_.’

They curled up the hill, the headlights illuminating the merry little sign _Southview Caravan Park_ — and sped past.  
As Claire had known they would. Her whole body was ice.

Kate turned her head — and Claire’s already shaken world flipped, spun out of orbit. The woman’s red mouth was open showing a double row of teeth like razors. Her eyes were red as hell-fire. Nails black as pitch scraped the surface of the glowing stone.  
‘A _Palantir._ ’ Kate’s voice dropped into something throaty, utterly alien. ‘A lesser one, true, but still useful, if one but can find the others. And how very funny. You thought he was dangerous. I hoped you would. And so you ran...to me.’ She laughed again.

Far beyond caring, at that moment, what the consequences might be, Claire caught the stone up and smashed it into the side of the woman’s head. Kate shrieked and the car swerved, tyres ripping across tarmac with a squeal and stink of burned rubber. The movement flung Claire against the passenger door. She grabbed at the handle, but a hand wrenched her back.

‘Do you like it _rough_?’ The woman’s voice whispered, making Claire’s skin crawl. Nails pricked at her cheeks as her head was turned.

The kiss tasted like blood. Claire choking, struggled against a preternatural strength. There was a noxious black cloud inside her, around her, burning and rot and ancient tombs. She thought she was losing consciousness. Then she was released, shaking, breath coming hard. Motes danced before her eyes.

A man walked onto the road. The headlights illuminated him, dressed in black, very tall, long hair drawn up into a plume. They glinted on two swords he held in each hand.

‘Thuringwethil,’ he said. ‘Leave her alone, and _get out._ ’

The woman made a sound like a growl, eager, keening, and climbed from the car, over the window-screen, onto the bonnet. She seemed to change as she moved in a way that was chilling, wholly unnatural. When she stood, wings jutted from her shoulders; she drew in, crouching.  
‘Vanimórë. Are you going to be a good boy and come home? A _Palantir_. Where _did_ you find it? And has it been any use to you, hmm?’

‘Sauron can rot in the Hells! If he wants me back so badly, he can come himself, not send one of his _lackeys._ ’

With a catlike hiss, the woman straightened slowly, and then leapt, wings outstretched. The man spun aside, swords flicking out. There was a shriek; the noise Claire had heard when fleeing from Summerland. Not a fox then. When Kate (Thuringwethil) rose again, she was hunched, a hand came away from her side, black with blood in the moonlight. She chuckled. Her shape shifted again, and it was some _thing_ half-human, half-bat that launched itself at him.

Claire had seen sword fighting in movies. She had seen heroes fighting monsters. This was nothing like a movie. The _sense_ of it, the sounds, the violence, were shocking, immediate. The man began to spin on his feet so that his swords formed a steel barrier around him as Thuringwethil darted and lunged. He whirled like a dancer around her then stopped, shockingly fast, and struck out, not just once but following it up with blow on blow, violent, brutal, graceful.

Without realising she had moved, Claire had got out of the car. She was filled with a disgusted horror of the creature that shouldn’t exist, that now crawled jointedly toward the man like an enormous vampire bat. The stone held in both hands, she raised it over her head, and brought it down on the thing’s head. The sensation of the impact made her feel deathly sick, but she had read that if you were fighting for your life, you didn’t _stop._ Moaning through her teeth, she hit it again, again, wanting it gone, wanting it _dead._ The skull _crunched_. Bile rose in Claire’s throat. She had never imagined she could be violent, never imagined she could hurt anyone. But perhaps, inside everyone, is a deeper, older instinct that is pure self-preservation, and it rose in her now.

A blade flashed. The thing stiffened with a dreadful sound and collapsed.

The night was so quiet, smelling of the sea and cut hay. And blood, acrid, toxic, blood.

‘Are you all right, Claire?’ the man asked calmly, and now, the long hair was gone, the black clothes, the swords, and he was dressed again in jeans and shirt. But the ghastly black hump still lay, half on the road. Claire had hoped it would just...vanish. Or transform back into a woman.  
‘No,’ she said honestly, and threw up.

An arm came around her as she retched, sticky-cold, tears on her cheeks. The clasp was warm and strong and comforting. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and gasped. ‘Sorry.’

‘The first time I killed, I was sick too, and I never trusted any of my men who were not. You did very well. Thank you.’ He lead her to the car and she folded into the seat.  
‘I am the one who is sorry,’ he continued, ‘but there was no easy way to talk to you without you thinking me crazy.’ He went back to the crumpled corpse and began to tow it toward the car as easily as if it were roadkill. ‘She was on the roof; that is what set the alarm off. I had to pursue her, drive her off, and then you ran. I didn’t handle that very well at all. I told you to stay where you were, because I didn’t want _her_ to find you, but of course you thought _I_ was the threat.’

‘Thuringwethil.’ Her teeth were chattering.

He heaved the corpse into the back of the car. Its limbs and wings stuck out at horrible angles. ‘Let’s hope we don’t meet anyone. Yes. Claire, you know. You _do_ know. You are the link.’ He opened the boot. ‘I was told ‘Kate’ had checked out of the inn tonight. Here’s her luggage.’ There was a sound of something unzipping. He passed her a leather jacket. ‘Put it around you until we get back to the house.

‘Thuringwethil,’ she repeated, huddling into the expensive-smelling leather as he started the car. ‘My god — _Sauron_?’ And then: _Mark Lowry, Mark Lowry, Maglor...Macalaurë. Oh, my god!_. ‘She was going to take me to Sauron.’

‘He must be fairly close, then.’ He turned the steering wheel. ‘But I think he will not show himself just yet. Do not worry.’

The Mercedes purred down the empty road.  
‘You have known, but not known that you know, for some time, I think.’ Then, when she said nothing: ‘I am not Maglor’s enemy, Claire. I wish to help him. He is being hunted.’ He added gently: ‘And so, I am afraid, are you.’

Her mouth opened and closed again. ‘Hunted!’ She looked at him. ‘By...’ She couldn’t say it, what she did say, in a high, wavering voice was: ‘The Silmarillion is just a _book._ ’

‘Much has been lost, and more was never recorded,’ he replied. ‘But it _is_ a very incomplete record of a much older world. Scraps, fragments.’

She sat rigid, hugging the jacket around her as the car passed back through the silent village.

‘You know Maglor,’ he said, handling the car with casual competence. ‘ Thuringwethil has clearly known who I am and where I am for a while, but could not enter Summerland. It was she who slashed your tyre in the car park, Claire. I saw her there, and she saw me. If I hadn’t spoken to you, had not waited, _she_ would have undoubtedly offered you a lift.’ He glanced at her. ‘And you might have accepted, as she was a woman.’

‘Oh, god,’ Claire groaned. Yes, she probably would have. But how had Thuringwethil found her? St. Andrews? Had she — somehow— found Maglor in St.Andrews then lost him when he left for the summer and followed Claire? Gooseflesh prickled up her arms at the thought of that thing lurking, watching her...

‘I parked elsewhere, not wanting you to think I was stalking you, and kept an eye on the car and you, when you came out, until the AA arrived.’ Vanimórë’s words jolted her from her unpleasant thoughts. ‘I had my suspicions of her, knew she was not ‘Kate Barrington’, but when I saw her slash your tyre...it might have been malice, some history between you two, or it might have been quite something else.’

‘But how do you know, that I know Mar —Maglor?’ _When I didn’t even know myself...or refused to accept it._

‘Your dream, the dream that sent you out into the sea. I dreamed it too, and he was dreaming it somewhere—‘

‘You can read my mind?’ she demanded.

‘Yes,’ he replied, prosaically. ‘Although my power is somewhat bound here.’ He pulled the car up before Summerland’s closed gates. ‘And I make mistakes of omission more often than not because I know what it is like to have another in one’s mind, and I hate it. I did not look into Kate Barrington’s mind because I underrated her until it was almost too late. (And I should know better than to underestimate a woman) And Sauron too, cloaked her, he must have done and very well, enough to make me dismiss her as some obsessed little rich girl pretending to be a freelance journalist, bankrolled by rich parents. Since the rise of the internet, there have been more than a few like her. And she kept her cover very well, I must admit.’ The gates swung inward. ‘Well, my power has limits imposed on it. It has to. The world is unused to the footsteps of power in this time, this Age, Claire. And power always calls to power. In my case, I do not care very much, as I know what Sauron wants.’ He shrugged. ‘And unfortunately he knows where I am, now. But he has to hide himself too, hence sending one of his servants to search for me, for us. One might say we all try to hide from one another, Maglor, Olórin—‘

‘Olórin,’ she repeated and slewed round in the seat to stare at him. ‘You mean _Gandalf_ is here, too?’

He smiled ruefully, setting the car in motion under the great sweep of sentinel trees. ‘I have seen him, yes. And there are others, also.’

Claire closed her eyes. She wanted to say she didn’t believe any of it — except she had just lived through something completely fantastical. New experiences broaden the mind, but trauma and the impossible crack it wide open.

Vanimórë swung the car in front of the house.  
‘You see, a war is coming, Claire, and the Silmaril must be found. Maglor _must_ find it, before...anyone else does.’

She looked at him, then down at her hand which still held the stone, the _Palantir._ it was sticky with blood, almost welded to her skin. She grimaced, and Vanimórë gently took it from her.  
‘I found it in Uzbekistan,’ he said, ‘long ago now, just after Word War II. It was easy then to assume a new identity, so many missing, millions dead, refugees, lost records, bombed cities...Sometimes I wonder who is worse, the Dark Lords, or Men.’

Claire could say nothing to that.  
‘It glowed,’ she volunteered. ‘When...she was driving me.’

‘For you?’ he asked sharply. ‘or for her?’

‘I don’t know. But I was holding it. It looked like galaxies, moving, swirling through the cosmos, beautiful...’

‘Sometimes I have seen something, or thought I did, but nothing like that.’ He cut the engine, rested his hands on the steering wheel. ‘The _Palantiri_ answer to one another. Sauron had one once, but of course you know that...Who knows how many Fëanor brought out of Valinor, or where the others are? Lost in the earth, in some landfill, or attic, gathering dust.’

A thrill, nothing like fear this time, ran from Claire’s head to her heels. _Fëanor made this,_ she thought, remembering Mark — Maglor’s — terrible pain that she had felt but not understood. She wondered if it would bring him some comfort to hold something his father had fashioned, or if it would make it worse? And the Silmaril...

Vanimórë got out of the car, came to the passenger side and opened Claire’s door, extending a hand. She took it, feeling the callouses left by wielding a sword.

‘Come. Nanny, will want to give you sweet tea and put you to bed. But, if you feel you can, I would like to speak to you for a moment before you sleep.’

‘Yes, I don’t think I can sleep.’ A thought struck her and she caught at his arm. ‘Rosie,’ she said. ‘is she safe? If...Thuringwethil followed me—‘

His head rose as if he consulted the night, the moon. ‘She is safe,’ he assured her. ‘Thuringwethil was working on her own. Sauron is not too far away, I feel, but we have time. And Rosie is not linked to this the way you are. But it might be wise to terminate your holiday.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed fervently. They trod up the front steps and she glanced sidelong at him, frowning. ‘You...why do you look different now?’ she asked. ‘When you were fighting—‘

‘Ah, this is just...glamour, in the old sense of the word,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘I have to try and fit in to this world.’

She looked a him incredulously. ‘I’m sorry? Fit in? You _don’t_!’

‘Insofar as possible. Does Maglor, then?’ He ushered her into the hall.

‘He...not really, but better than you do.’

‘Hmm, he must be using some glamour too. And he has more experience, of course.’

Nanny appeared from the back of the house and hustled Claire upstairs. She did indeed dose her with sweet tea and almost pushed her into the shower, scolding all the while, even thought he hiss of the water. This time, Claire allowed her ministrations and to be put to bed, where Nanny fluffed up the pillows and slid a hot water bottle under her feet. Nanny had presented her with a voluminous nightdress and dressing-gown, clearly her own, but better than nothing at all and they were laundry-fresh, comforting.

Vanimórë entered the room after knocking carrying a a glass of dark spirit. He had changed his clothes for a long sleeved shirt and jogging bottoms, casual clothes that looked designed for his long, slim frame. There was a cut on the palm of his hand. Claire could have blessed him as the spirit hit her stomach. Brandy. She sighed and smiled wanly.  
‘The bottom has fallen out of my world,’ she said, then, ‘You hurt your hand.’

‘One of her claws,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would comfort her to know she could hurt me in death if not in life. But I heal very quickly. ‘And indeed the cut was already scabbing over, an uncanny sight. ‘I will see about...disposal tomorrow, early. And yes,’ he added, ‘I know what it feels like. But it is simply an ancient history. Your world has a new dimension added to it.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s so crazy, you know, having read the books, seen the films, it would almost be easier if I _didn’t_ know anything about it, if it were just discovered by archaeologists and...gradually accepted.’

‘But you did know about Maglor,’ he pressed gently.

‘But I didn’t,’ she protested. ‘not really. I used to have these dreams, and he has...a scar on his hand, and he’s like you, too beautiful to be real, but it’s been a few years since I read the Silmarillion and it didn’t _click._ ’

He sat on a chair beside the bed. ‘It may have been he was...encouraging you not to see, to realise.’

She took another sip of brandy, dark, rich complex, turning the thought over in her mind, not liking it because she had thought they were friends, but could she — any Mortal— ever be friends with Maglor Fëanorion? Ever understand his long, long loneliness and grief.  
‘Could he do that?’

‘He could. How do you think we exist, Claire, in a world of Men? There are some, not many, and less now but some, always, who have what you might call empathy, but more than that, something in the blood, perhaps, an understanding, who can sense something, see something, feel what we are.’ He smiled, but the curves of his mouth carried sadness. ‘And we lose them, friendships, love, after a short time and so it is easier, in the end, to push them away, to hide ourselves, to move from place to place. Easier, and harder too.’

She swallowed, a burn of tears behind her eyes. ‘Yes, I think I understand that.’ She thought for a moment, that she was going to cry and raised her eyes to the ceiling, blinking quickly.  
He leaned forward. ‘But we are coming toward the end now. I need you to find him, Claire. He trusts you.’

She brought her head down, looked at him. Her cheeks, her whole body, felt scalding hot, from the brandy, she supposed. Reaction to emotional shock.  
‘Why doesn’t he trust _you_?’

‘Why would he? He....does not know me. I am in no book, Claire, no record, no scribbled note.’

She touched one hand to her cheek where Thuringwethil’s nails had bitten. Nanny had cleaned the cuts with antiseptic, but they still stung.  
‘She said, about you...that you bowed before...Sauron.’

‘Claire, never listen to what he or his servants say; if they tell the truth they twist it. She did not want you to trust me.’

She nodded. Of course. Thuringwethil, as Kate Harrington, had wanted her to believe this man should be avoided, was dangerous. And so he was, although not in the way Claire had feared. She plucked at the duvet.  
‘Don’t you think Maglor might have tried to find the Silmaril before now, if he could?’ she wondered. ‘It could be at the bottom of the Mariannas Trench, buried under the silt of...however long. Thousands of years.’ She finished the brandy and gasped. No doubt it was an expensive one, just as the whiskey had been but it was, even for brandy, potent. There was an odd aftertaste to it she could not identify; not unpleasant but strange. The soft bedside light seemed very bright, and she blinked against it.

‘Perhaps he has, but it is not beyond his reach now. I can feel it myself.’ His voice seemed to echo in the room, to sink through her skin, into her blood. ‘It is in my dreams as it is in his. The tides of the oceans, the deep movements of the Earth, bring it closer. The Silmarils carry part of his father’s spirit, Claire, part of _Fëanor’s soul_. He needs it to release his father, his brothers. The Silmaril will aid him. He must call to it. It will come to him.’

Claire leaned back against the pillows, rubbed her burning eyes. She was suddenly bone-weary, and was afraid she had caught a chill; her body ached as if sickening for the ‘flu and a shiver ran through her. She wanted nothing more than just to sleep. Sleep and forget that this had been anything but a dream.  
‘I don’t know where he is, I honestly don’t.’

Vanimórë took the empty glass from her lax fingers. ‘But you _will_ see him. Tomorrow, Nanny will give you money, enough for you to enjoy another holiday elsewhere and, if you wish, to search for him. It is very important Claire.’

He watched closely as her eyes drooped, her whole body relaxing into sleep. Her breathing became deep and regular. Very gently, he settled her, drew the duvet up to her chin, and touched her cheek. Across the bed, his eyes met Nanny’s.  
‘It is done.’

Nanny nodded. As she came to her feet, the air shimmered around her and she stood as a beautiful woman, hair falling in black clouds, eyes as grey as the sea.

‘She will not see me tomorrow, tell her I am dealing with Thuringwethil’s body and the car. Tell her...I am sorry. That seems to cover everything.’

She drifted around the bed, laid a hand on his arm.  
‘Thou art not always wise, my brother, but thou wert always kind. Nevertheless, it will not be easy. In this world, one would call thine actions quixotic.’

‘And so they are,’ he agreed, amused. ‘It never is easy, Vanya. When she notices that she does not age, never gets sick...With my _Khadakhir_ , I was with them, and could help. But she will have him, and he will have someone that he need not lose. He will take her to Olórin, who will understand what has happened, if not why, or _who_ , and they will both help her to adjust.’ He walked to the window, drew back the curtains and looked out into the windless summer night. ‘War is coming, but not quickly; it will play out over decades or more. And soon, my dear, I must go. This is not my world, after all. But it has been...an education. Of sorts.’

‘I will follow thee, when she is gone. Our father, in _this_ world, is going to be very surprised when you simply vanish, Vanimórë. It took him a long time to find you.’

‘The Vanimórë of this world is dead, sister, he died long ago. Sauron merely _hoped_ that I may have found a way out of the Void. As he did. Worlds within worlds, stories within stories. And when I saw this—‘ He gestured to the sleeping Claire. ‘I could not help but interfere. I never liked the depressing implication that Maglor wandered lost, alone, forever. But it seems he did, in this world: a kind of eternal damnation because he would not seek Valinor, as if he were a petitioner who must humble himself before the Valar.’

She came to him, took his hand. Her cool fingertips traced the cut.  
‘Godblood,’ she said. ‘Sauron’s blood, and Fëanor’s. It will be a burden.’

‘Thou knowest I had no choice at the end.’

She nodded. ‘The cuts on her cheek.’

‘And Thuringwethil’s kiss. It would have been recorded as Necrotising Fasciitis, swift and lethal. Some bacteria that infected her on holiday. Unfortunate, tragic for her family, very sad. A brief horror story in some rag of a tabloid. Case closed. My blood will purge it, while she sleeps.’ He opened a drawer on the bedside table, took out a leather wallet and a pile of manila envelopes, the _Palantir_ , now cleaned of blood. ‘Credit cards. Give her the PIN numbers. Winning lottery ticket.’ He flashed his sister a smile. ‘Or it will be. 58 million.’

‘As you suggested, I said I was buying it for my granddaughter, and paid cash,’ Vanya said. ‘Her name and address is on the back. There will be no difficulty with her cashing it in.’

‘There will be less suspicion in her winning the lotto, than her having money paid into her bank account each month,’ Vanimórë nodded. ‘but she may as well have the cards, too, for now. Her journeys — their journeys— will require a great deal of money, although Maglor must have plenty of his own. Still, it seems in this world, one can never have enough. And certainly mine will never run out. It may as well be put to good use.’ He laid down another envelope. ‘False passports.’

‘And Summerland?’ Vanya asked.

‘Summerland’s owner and Nanny will depart — a very long holiday. The staff will be retained.’ He held up one envelope. ‘The key to the front door, and the utility room because, as you say, the front door is difficult to open, and I never did get round to fixing the damned thing.’ Another envelope. ‘House keys. California, Maine, South of France, South Africa —’ The list went on: properties in quiet locations around the world, all on the coast, all carefully and absolutely purchased over the decades. ‘I have written her a letter to explain that I want her — them — to use these places if they wish to. If they have to.’

‘She may not accept; she is a proud woman, with scruples.’

‘She may not, or not immediately. But I hope she will in the future, if there is need. And there will be. Tell her to keep them secret, keep them safe.’ He laughed softly. Vanya gleamed at him but she said, ‘She will mention thy name to Maglor, thou knowest.’

He shrugged. ‘It will mean nothing to him, not in this world, not to him, to Olórin, or to anyone save Sauron, and I doubt they will be talking to our father.’ He thrust his hands into his hair then grimaced and shook his head and returned to himself, to his black leather and boots, his swords and long plume of hair. ‘I never could accustomed myself to the feel of short hair,’ he remarked and Vanya smiled, said, ‘Thou shouldn’t have tried being Nanny.’

‘Nanny was wonderful. It was rather like acting in a play. And Claire trusts her, rather more than she trusts me. Who can blame her? I did lie to her.’ He moved to the bed. ‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly to the sleeping woman. ‘But I had to bind my power to come here, because I could not, otherwise, have come at all, not to this world, where the only power is that of money and everything it can buy, where people believe in so little. Such a _physical_ world, the magic dying day by day.’ He smiled tautly. ‘It is going to have rather a...shock in the coming years. But because my power was limited, it put thee in danger and for that I am sorry.’ He leaned forward and kissed her brow. ‘I can give thee no blessing, Claire James, I was never any good at that, only the hope of a measure of happiness. Thou wilt not forgive me, but perhaps thou wilt understand, once day.’ He rose, turned to his sister.  
‘This world is breaking, Vanya, all the civilisation they have created...some of it worth preserving, is opening to the war that stretches across every universe there is. Give her the _Palantir_. Tell her to be careful with it, but it may be of some comfort to Maglor. And one day, it may be of use. It called to her.’ He frowned at the stone. ‘From this world, or another, I wonder? I cannot tell, not as I am now.’

‘I will.’ A smile moved her mouth. ‘A good thing ‘Nanny’ knows so little, is it not? All the questions she will have...’

‘She will, I think, remember what I have said, even if only as dreams at first.’ Then he kissed his sister’s cheek, laughing. ‘Nanny will just scold her, tell her not to be an ingrate and see her on her way after a good breakfast.’ He stretched. ‘Do impress upon her she needs to go quickly, and as far away from here as she can. Sauron is in this land, I think; he must be if Thuringwethil meant to take Claire to him.’

‘I doubt she will need much encouragement,’ Vanya said dryly.

‘No.’ He looked around the room. ‘It has taken a long time, in Mortal years, to set all this up. There is no more I can do, so farewell, my dear, for now.’

‘But thou wilt come back.’ Vanya made it a statement.

Vanimórë considered. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘One day.’ Then he reached into his pocket and, with a smile, tossed the Bentley’s car key’s to Vanya. ‘The documents are with the rest. All signed over to her. It is a good car and she may need one in the near future.’  
  
Vanya nodded. ‘I will see thee soon,’ she said. ‘Here, or there.’  
  
’Here or there,’ he agreed. 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	4. ~ God of Bronze and Fire ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Narya, hopefully it is a little cheer-up and we have mentioned this :)

  
  
  
  


**~ God of Bronze and Fire ~**

 

 

~ ‘I cannot become further involved.’

Coldagnir raised his brows. ‘ _Cannot_?’  
  
Vanimórë conceded with a smile: ‘Very well, _should_ not. I was there, in Mortal years, quite a long time, and I do feel somewhat responsible but —‘  
  
‘The perils of becoming attached?’  
  
‘Yes, perhaps. I could hate them, thou knowest, their wilful blindness, their fears that present as hate and bias and cruelty, their wasteful ness and greed, but not _all_ of them. Some, I would save. And she is one of them.’  
  
‘I thought thou wert not getting involved,’ Coldagnir murmured with a subtle smile.  
  
‘Stop it,’ with a laugh and raising one hand in a fencer’s gesture. ‘It is too tempting. But matters are already in motion on that Earth. We will see how they play out and the players — those there now and those whom I hope will come — are not negligible.’  
  
Coldagnir looked, frowning, at the portal, the streams and sparks of light, the worlds that appeared and disappeared. ‘How hard was it,’ he asked. ‘to fit in there?’  
  
‘Well, one must use glamour of course. Maglor is better at it than I, but he had far more practice. And yet, she saw something more in Maglor, Claire James, more than _saw_ , she felt. There are not many like her. A few, here and there.’  
  
‘Thou art concerned for her.’ Gently.  
  
Vanimórë’s mouth twitched. ‘She was in a nightmarish situation, out of her depth and terrified, yet she broke Thuringwethil’s skull with a _Palantir_ , and did not stop until she was finished. I am not exactly _worried_ , Urphiel, but I do think that my father, on that world, will be, shall we say, _interested_ in her. That _does_ concern me.’  
  
‘Thou doth care for her?’  
  
‘She is a capable, intelligent, lovely young woman, empathic and sensitive. But very young. And she now has my blood within her. That was a risk. My blood is also Sauron’s blood, and he could always find me, always _control_ me to an extent through that blood link.’ He folded his arms. ‘As I was there, my powers were that of Sauron’s son, before my apotheosis, and so I could do nothing else. I could not extirpate the poison. Thuringwethil’s blood would have killed her. As it is...’ He shrugged. ‘My blood, Sauron’s, Fëanor’s. It is no light thing to carry.’  
  
‘The _Khadakhir_ bore it well,’ Coldagnir noted.  
  
‘Yes, but they were not left floundering and alone. I was there. Claire needs to find Maglor quickly, because he is one of the few who can guide her through this. I certainly would not want my father to be her guide,’ he added dryly.  
  
‘And where is he now?’  
  
Vanimórë lightly touched the surface of the Portal, reached in and drew the Earth into the palm of his hand.  
‘A city called Venice,’ he said, ‘in Italy. Look.’  
  
Coldagnir gazed at it. ‘It is charming.’  
  
‘Yes, a fitting backdrop for Maglor,’ he smiled but sadly, thinking of Maglor’s agelong loneliness. ‘At the moment, I simply want Claire to run, as far and fast as she can. Sauron is too close. She has time, but not very much. And I hope some of the things I told her, imparted into her mind as she slept will take root, and that she will remember. She is no longer ordinary, not that she ever was.’  
  
‘Perhaps thou shouldst have remained with her.’ Coldagnir’s beautiful face was serious. ‘Until she was accustomed.’  
  
‘That might have made it worse for her. I am sure Thuringwethil had let Sauron know she had located me, at least. No.’ He let the Earth drift away, rotating around its Sun. ‘I laid a trail for him to follow, giving her a little time, I hope. With him, one can never tell. Still, Claire now has the means to go wherever she pleases. She has access to almost all the wealth I have accumulated over the last decades and is also about to win a veritable fortune, although I hope she keeps quiet about it. I believe she will; she is intelligent. She needs to go into whatever they call there “deep cover”, to be almost invisible. I imagine Sauron, whatever he calls himself there, is also impossibly wealthy, but the odds are at least a little evened. Money can buy almost anything on that world.’  
  
‘Almost everything?’ Coldagnir glanced at him. ‘Thou didn’t not give her access to it all, then?’  
  
‘Oh, I kept a certain amount accessible — in case it was needed. One should never entirely cut oneself off. It took me long enough to accrue it. And I might need it. One never knows.’  
  
Coldagnir turned to face him. From the portal a wind blew, smelling of summer, of water, of rich soil — and over it all a scent that both recognised from Utumno and Angband: chemic, metallic. Vanimorë knew it for pollution, and so had it been then, in the Hells and in the deep Underworld of Melkor’s first fortress. The wind streamed Coldagnir’s hair out in an oriflamme, like a signal of oncoming war.  
  
‘Did I exist there?’ he asked.  
  
‘Yes, Coldagnir, yes, Nemrúshkeraz, yes, Urphiel. In that world thou didst die in the War of Wrath and thy soul was banished to the Void.’  
  
A shadow crossed the beaten-bronze eyes. He said, ‘Let me go there.’  
  
‘Why?’ But he knew why. How could he not?  
  
‘Because someone should.’ Their eyes met. ‘Because in that world I fought for Melkor and could not redress it. If it comes to war, and thou sayest it will, I will have the opportunity. And because I am intrigued.’  
  
‘It is an intriguing world,’ Vanimórë acknowledged. ‘But a difficult one. Well.’ He half-smiled. ‘As I said, thou wouldst need to use glamour. Even then, some might see through it. And even so, thou art not going to be overlooked.’ Coldagnir was a god, a god of bronze and scarlet and fire.  
  
‘And as I would seem to need money, wilt thou allow me access to thine own?’  
  
‘Only if thou dost not spend it all,’ he said straight-faced.  
  
‘In case thou hast need of it?’ A glinting smile.  
  
‘Well, one never knows. So then, let me brief thee, as they say there.’  
  
  
  
Only Vanimórë saw Coldagnir leave.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Coldagnir, by Kaprriss  
  
  
[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2d2at74)  
  
  
https://www.deviantart.com/kaprriss


	5. ~ Across the Divide ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is okay, Narya, and lots of good thoughts to you and your husband

  
  
  


**~ Across the Divide ~**

 

 

~ Vanimórë had briefed him well, given him his knowledge of the world and the Age, yet it did not mitigate the shock and strangeness, the pressing, almost stifling _busyness_ of it, the sheer moving mass of humanity. Unlike Vanimórë, he had not needed to leave the majority of his powers behind him and while he was glad of it, it was also a lesson in self-restraint not to use them. He understood how difficult it must have been (still was) for Vanimórë. And his appearance, although changed, was not one, he realised, that would pass unnoticed.

‘Thou couldst wear thy hair that long,’ Vanimórë had said, as they prepared. ‘But it would cause some comment.’ He lifted up the great mane where flames danced in the scarlet waves. ‘And thou wilt find people with hair of that colour, artificially tinted, but —‘ he shrugged. ‘ This is better.’ He had etched an image from the air. Recognisably Coldagnir but...muted. The clothes were simple, though excellently cut. His eyes were covered by what Vanimórë referred to as ‘sunglasses’ (amusing for one could look, indeed walk, in the uncovered Sun, had been born out of its fury) dark squares of metal that concealed the bright scoured-bronze, accentuating the high curve of his cheeks, the full, hard mould of his mouth.

‘I will give thee all the knowledge thou wilt need,’ Vanimórë said, touching a finger to Coldagnir’s forehead. ‘There. And do not speak as we do here. It will earn thee some odd looks.’ He smiled. ‘I kept forgetting in the early days.’ He considered. ‘I will send thee to Summerland. Vanya will still be there but Claire will have left.’

‘Thou art not worried about thy sister?’

Vanimórë smiled. ‘No. She could vanish into the stones, the mists, a drop of rain, the curve of a grass blade, and Sauron would never find her.’

‘Would Maglor know me there?’ Coldagnir wondered.

‘He fought and killed a Balrog when Maglor’s Gap was overtaken, both in this reality and that one.’ Coldagnir nodded. ‘And thou doth not look like a Balrog now. But power — especially there — is like a scent that draws others. Now, come.’ He moved to a marble table. ‘Documents. Yes, I know thou canst fly,’ he flashed a smile, ‘or move from one place to another instantly. And I do not say thou must not, if the need arises, but then thou wilt have people reporting visions of fiery-winged _angels_ whom art supposed to be messengers of god.’

‘Well,’ Coldagnir said amusedly, ‘And am I not, in a sense?’

Vanimórë laughed. ‘Well, one could stretch a point, yes, but there are advantages to appearing normal — as I said, power calls to power. And so: passport, credit cards. Vanya will give you the keys to a couple of properties. Claire has most of the coastal ones, but there are some others that might be useful.’

‘Dost thou have any in this city of Venice?’

‘Unfortunately not. But thou wilt find some beautiful hotels there. I recommend the Gritti Palace. I booked a suite there once.’ He ran through a mental list. ‘As for clothes, we are very much the same height and build and I have whole wardrobes at Summerland. Vanya will see to that. Thou wilt need a car. Claire has the Bentley. Vanya will run through some options with thee. Thou wilt want something fast, something reliable, and not _too_ noticeable or it will attract attention, and thou wilt garner enough of that.’ He swept his eyes down Coldagnir’s tall form with a slight smile. ‘I lived for a while as a vagrant, slept on the streets, at the side of roads. I could of course, without harm, but most cannot. However it was much more... _fun_ to be incredibly rich.’ He leaned back against the table. ‘And one can do more for others. There is a tiny percentage of people, Coldagnir, on that Earth, who possess most of the money. The rest just manage to live, or do not. It is ridiculous and impossible, but it is coming to the end. With wealth, I tried to help as I could, without anyone being the wiser, but in fact the whole edifice needs to be completely shaken down and changed. And it will be.’

‘I am assessing the knowledge thou hast given me,’ Coldagnir replied slowly, pacing the chamber. ‘I wonder, if Sauron had ruled the world as he desired would it have been the same?’

Vanimórë had to laugh. ‘He has no time for fools. Some of those world leaders...gods! And no time for the idiocy of some of the religious groups. Of course he would have _been_ their religion. As it is, there are different gods there. And without the actual presence of a god, humankind tends to believe exactly what it wants to as long as it aligns with their own biases, hates and fears.’

Coldagnir raised his brows. ‘How strange.’

‘Well, humankind’s saving grace is a minority of decent intelligent people who do not deserve to fall with the rest of them.’

‘And dost thou intend those to be saved, for the others to be...culled?’

‘What will happen will act as an effective cull in itself, Coldagnir. Of course, Sauron would want to cull the dross anyhow.’ He moved away from the table. ‘or use them as slaves. And a few, a very few, would be raised to power, just as the Mouth was.’ He made a quick, flicking gesture of disgust. ‘The odds are very much in his favour at present, but I hope they shall be tipped a little. Claire is one weight on our scales. A greater one than she yet knows. I have tried to reach Maglor’s mind and apprise him of that fact but of course he does not know me, not there. Thou shalt be another weight. And there are others, already there, or who will come. And all must find one another. There is too much pressing at the barriers now, the thin places. And the world turns and humankind live their lives and most are oblivious to it.’

‘Non-involvement,’ Coldagnir murmured provocatively.

‘When thou hast lived there a week tell me how easy thou thou doth find it.’ Vanimórë straightened his face. ‘And I have so little self-control,’ he mock-mourned. ‘Now, stand still for a moment.’ He sketched the air about Coldagnir from head to feet leaving, in the wake of his hands, the new persona, the Coldagnir who would walk the streets and cities and lands of a strange world. When he was finished, he stepped back.  
‘Yes, I think that will do...Well, thou wilt still turn heads. But that cannot be helped. And anyone like thee — and Claire and Maglor of course, will be able to see through the glamor.’

‘I was thinking,’ Coldagnir said, smoothing a hand down the soft material that encased his arm. ‘of Melkor. In that world.’

‘Melkor exists in every reality there is. There has been no Dagor Bragollach yet, in that one.’

‘And, over there, does Sauron want him back? is that what he prepares for?’

‘I think it would rather cramp his style.’ Vanimórë said, ‘to have Melkor return. But he knows Melkor will, sooner or later. Yet the power to defeat Melkor does not lie with Sauron, or the incredibly destructive weaponry humans have created and amassed, but within the Silmarils, within Fëanor’s soul. Together, rejoined, the Flame Imperishable is a force that cannot be destroyed, not even by Melkor. Which is why he always searched for it, and craved it. And it runs in every one of the Children, most potently in Fëanor and his sons.’ He poured a sparkling wine and handed a class to Coldagnir.

‘Where shall I go after I leave Summerland?’

‘Venice seems a good idea.’

Coldagnir tapped the crystal glass. ‘Will they be running? Moving from one place to another?’

‘If they have to. Searching, too, for the Silmaril, or they should, as long as Maglor believes what Claire will tell him. And Sauron is not omniscient. However, just as in the Elder Days he has gathered many who serve him, acting as his eyes and ears. Some will be simply human — because this is a war that will involve humankind — others will be Maia, such as Thuringwethil, although,’ he added with satisfaction, ‘I doubt she will be able to regather a form for a very long time. Foolish creature. She _deeply_ underestimated a certain young woman. Shall we drink a toast?’ he raised his glass. ‘to Claire James? I wanted to kill Thuringwethil so many times. Sauron never permitted it of course.’ They drank.

‘It seems a shame they cannot enjoy their lives for a time.’ Coldagnir finished the wine and went toward the door, the green garden where the Portal shimmered.

‘I managed to wring _some_ enjoyment even from my life as Sauron’s slave,’ Vanimórë murmured. ‘And they have time, a little. But power brings responsibility, as we both know. And there are others searching for the Silmarils. In that world, Maglor cast one into the sea. Maedhros took one with him into the fires of the earth. Both can still be found. Lands change, even the oceans.’

‘Should I approach them directly?’ Coldagnir frowned. ‘They will be alert now to any more...strangeness.’

A tilted back-forth motion with his hand. ‘Play it by ear. Try to be subtle.’ He smiled. ‘Or as subtle as thou canst be looking like that.’ The sun would set that head of hair afire, not to mention the tall, slim frame, and the god-power and arrogance that even his muting could scarcely hide. And would not hide. Not from Maglor, not, now, from Claire.  
‘Oh, and Venice is a charming city to get lost in. Do not be in a hurry. Just see where the canals take thee. Or walk. There are some lovely little restaurants in the quieter areas, where one can sit outside, even in the busy season. Knowing Maglor, I imagine that he will keep away from the most crowded areas anyhow.’ He brushed his fingers across the portal’s surface setting the electricity jumping in arcs.  
‘Claire is a courageous woman but she has been through a great deal; she will be on her guard and rightly so. Better, indeed for her to be wary. Try not to make her nervous.’

‘Or she may break my head with the _Palantir_?’ Coldagnir’s mouth curled up in a half-smile. ‘Trust me, Vanimórë, I do not mean to alarm her.’

‘Well, she is going to _notice_ a well-over six-foot tall redhead dressed like a male model, if he appears to be suspiciously lurking around every corner,’ Vanimórë told him wryly, earning a gleaming bronze glance. ‘And Maglor is exceptionally protective of her. Gallant, gentlemanly, and there is nothing wrong with that, I felt the same. And she is his first friend in so many thousands of years. But if it comes to a fight it is going to be _sensed_ by anyone nearby. I am afraid I cannot tell thee how to gain their trust. Claire did not trust me until the end.’

Coldagnir looked into the portal, his full lips set hard. ‘I have much to atone for, in that world. I will find a way. I remember Maglor, fighting at Maglor’s gap, killing Lungorthin, like fire and lightning. And in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. For myself — to make some kind of requital — for them, and for those thou wouldst save, I will find a way. And I will do all I can to help them. If they allow it.’

Vanimórë laid a hand under his chin. ‘Maglor’s aloneness, his isolation was forced on him by circumstance, but once he had brothers he loved, friends. Such loneliness is not natural to him, and Claire knows the value of friendship. Indeed, she may be feeling severed from her old life, isolated. Thou canst mention me if it is necessary, although that may do thee little good, she probably associates me with horror.’ He kissed Coldagnir on the mouth, hard and brief. ‘I have faith in thee, Nemrúshkeraz.’

‘I can reach thee, if it is necessary?’

‘Of course.’ He gripped Coldagnir’s wide shoulder. ‘Now go.’

 

 

And so, Venice, a city on water, where the movement of that water, disturbed by the passing of boats, shimmered against the old, mossy stone walls like shot-silk, and where at night, lanterns shone upon the liquid darkness.

He booked a suite in the Gritti and, from there, explored Venice without haste, moving away from the areas thronged by tourists. He took water taxis, gondolas, and he walked, discovering little hidden-away courts with coloured, crumbling houses, tiny bridges over slender canals. He drank coffee or wine in small, expensive cafes and restaurants. And all the time he watched, from behind the screen of his black-tinted sunglasses, for an exiled Noldo prince and a women with rose-gold hair.

He had not found them yet, but he sensed them. Their minds were like the first rising stars as nightfall comes. ~

 

OooOooO

 

 


	6. ~ The White Slayer~

  
  
  
  


**~ The White Slayer ~**

 

~ It was not something he could speak to a Fëanorion about. Show Fëanor a reality where his second son had wandered for Age upon Age, alone, and nothing short of the most extreme force would prevent him going through the portal into that world. And, perhaps, that would not be a bad thing.

And (which was more likely) it would precipitate events in a way so explosive it might cause more damage than by observing, seeing how the the tale played out. (He hated observing; had never been content to observe, neither had his life given him the opportunity).  
On that world, the Earth of Claire James, Fëanor was not free. Fëanor was not, either, an observer.

Vanimórë did not watch every move of the protagonists, but at times he went to the portal, drew that Earth of that reality toward him, and watched. He had seen Claire leave Summerland, tracked Sauron’s moves, searched for his spies. Sometimes Coldagnir called him. Earth was an alien place to him; it had taken him some time to even marginally adjust. And, like Maglor, like Vanimórë, he was far too noticeable.

The Portal itself was hidden, even from gods. Fëanor knew of it, and Coldagnir. Fëanor, with what Vanimórë considered unusual circumspection, had not spoken of it to anyone, but he was spending much time with Míriel and his sons.

It was second nature to Vanimórë to keep his own counsel, but the loneliness that had driven him to bestow godhood upon the Elves nagged at him. He could understand why Eru had wanted to keep the gods in the Timeless Halls: even if they could not comprehend him, they were company of a sort. But Vanimórë, with his Elven blood, was not, even now, quite so alien. He _could_ speak with others. And, at times, he wanted to.

He did not — until Edenel came to him and asked him what preoccupied him. For a long moment he did not answer, but he had always, since their first meeting, felt a deep affinity to Edenel, perhaps through their shared experience of torment, perhaps because he felt that Edenel had surpassed him in worth, in dignity, in sheer courage, wearing his otherness with a beauty and grace that Vanimórë envied.  
Even before Vanimórë called down Fos Almir upon them, the _Ithiledhil_ had not quite been Elves any longer. The black crucible of Utumno had burned them into something else, half-gods, half-demons, forever set apart. Vanimórë had always thought of himself as at least half-demon.  
And in them both, were wounds that could never be healed, that, Vanimórë was beginning to admit, could never even skin over.

So he lead Edenel through the barrier that hid the green inner garden, and showed him the Portal into worlds, and Edenel listened, unspeaking, a faint frown traced faintly between his dark brows.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I can see the temptation of it. Of wanting to...intervene.’

Vanimórë looked at him, at the carved white features that made Edenel, somehow, more akin to Fëanor and Fingolfin than Finwë, their blood-father. He said ruefully, ‘Which is exactly what I should not do,’

Edenel laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Well, do not reproach thyself for wanting to. For what thou hast done. I am sure other gods have...meddled before, and will again. Thou wert acting from a place of compassion. I wondered what had happened to thee. Of course. There is no time here, but one day — if I may call it that — thou wert different. I suppose thou couldst spend a thousand years there and no time would pass here at all. Was it when thou hadst returned?’

‘Ah, thou didst notice something? Yes.’

‘So, what happened to the Vanimórë of that reality?’

‘He died,’ Vanimórë said lightly. ‘in the War of Wrath. Sauron did not send me away to avoid it. I — he — was slain in the fall of Angband. Sauron had locked me away. He did not trust me, even then, to fight for Melkor. When my prison was broken into, where I was bound and chained, Tulkas simply ran a sword through me. All brawn and no brain, that one, but he sensed Sauron’s blood in me. My soul went before Námo, who sent me into the Void.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘Melkor had promised me that punishment, and in that reality, it happened.’

Edenel’s fingers tightened in wordless comfort. ‘Then how could Sauron break out of the Void? I know he could always return if thou wert alive...Ah, Vanya?’

‘Yes. Vanya still lived. I killed her — that detail was no different — and they sent her out to wander the Earth, but in doing so she found her true powers. And so, Sauron still had a link to the world. He thought I did, too. And I hope that at least a little of his attention will be focussed on searching for me.’

‘Why that world?’ Edenel asked.

‘I would say pure chance, but I do not believe in coincidence.’ Vanimórë said wryly. ‘It is not, as a world, so far different from the one in which I lived and became a god. But Maglor — there is a binding between us. Perhaps it was that. The rest, my actions, were, I am afraid, sheer impulse.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Or not entirely. I could have gone there in any Age, at any time. I chose the time immediately after their last Great War because—‘

‘It _would_ have been too tempting to...refashion things in thine own image,’ Edenel nodded.

‘I cannot turn humankind into puppets; they have to learn.’ He could not keep the anger from his voice. ‘But the worse of them are so damned _slow_ to learn, and the shortness of their lives does not help. Dana told me once that Mortals were a greedy, needy race. She was not wrong although she was also not fair. It is the orc-blood in them. In some of them. But there are others...who have vision.’

‘Elvenblood,’ Edenel raised a brow.

‘Yes. Not that it makes them into saints, as they would say there, but it gives them _something_ , a greater intelligence, for one thing.’

‘In this woman, Claire James?’

‘She has more than distant Elvenblood in her now,’ Vanimórë murmured, ‘she has mine, and Sauron’s, and Fëanor’s. Yet what else could I have done? Thuringwethil meant to take her to Sauron, but when Claire fought back, she was infuriated and retaliated. Claire did not have long to live once the poison was in her blood.’

‘No, thou couldst have done nothing else.’ Edenel turned him, his smile kind, understanding. ‘I would have done the same. But why didst thou not stay and explain to her?’

‘I think she had had her fill of me. First she thought I was a murderer, or at least was _afraid_ I might be, primed as she was by Thuringwethil. And was she entirely wrong? I _am_ a killer. Perhaps she sensed that.’

‘Maglor has killed also, and thou knowest he would do it again.’

‘Yes, and is it that easy, to accept that someone thou doth care for is a killer? In the world we knew most of us were warriors; it was normal, but there, it is not quite the same. I felt it was best not to overwhelm her. I did leave her a letter.’

Edenel’s eyes lit with amusement. ‘A _letter_? A long one, was it?’

Vanimórë smiled. ‘Not that long. Which would involve delving into what they call quantum physics. She would understand it; she has the intelligence for it, although even those who study it say that if one thinks they comprehend it, they do not. But there were certain things I felt these had the right to know.’

‘Didst thou tell her whom thou art?’

‘Yes. I had to.’ He grimaced. ‘Thuringwethil had told her I bowed to Sauron, implying of course, that I served him. Which I did, once, but it was not the whole truth.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose Coldagnir could vouch for me if it were necessary, but he himself has to first earn her trust — and Maglor’s.’  
He ran his hands lightly across the portal as if plucking harp strings, and found the note in the Music that was Coldagnir. An image appeared: Coldagnir, in his Earthly persona, stood on a small, curved bridge over a slim span of dark water. Around him, pastel coloured houses crumbled gently, charming in their slow decay, like a woman who has once been beautiful and now ages gracefully, the bones beneath her skin still elegant.

Vanimórë could see, knew that Edenel could see, the Coldagnir muted to walk upon Earth, and perhaps not muted enough; a god born out of a sun could not be smothered easily even accoutred in the fashions of the world — and the reality of him in the water’s reflection: the streaming scarlet hair, the great fiery wings.

 _’When [the angels] descend, they put on the garment on this world’_ Vanimórë quoted. _‘If they did not put on a garment befitting this world_  
they could not endure in this world  
and the world could not endure them.’*

Edenel glanced at him.

‘It is from the Zohar,’ Vanimórë said. ‘A text of the Jewish people of Earth. Well, the latter is correct anyhow. We can endure the world, but...’

‘But the world could not easily endure him, in his true form no,’ Edenel agreed. ‘And thou didst let him go anyhow.’

‘Considering Sauron is there, I felt we needed to redress the balance a little. With Claire James, with Coldagnir. Unfortunately Sauron knows him, or knew the Coldagnir of that world. But there is no avoiding danger. Not now. And he wanted to go. I know the feeling of needing to atone.’

Edenel laid his fingers on Vanimórë’s lips. ‘Victims,’ he said softly, ‘should not feel the need to atone. It is more than that.’ removing his hand, he continued, ‘with thee, it is always the need to protect, I think.’

‘And the realisation that I cannot — not always, not without becoming a tyrant ruling over automatons — just as the Valar wished to be.’

‘So thou art doing what thou canst, wondering if it is too little or too much.’

Vanimórë said ruefully: ‘Yes. Because once I could do nothing. or so very little. Is Coldagnir too much?

As they watched a family party, brightly dressed for the hot summer, crossed the little bridge behind him. They were talking among themselves, and though, as they passed, they looked at him, there was no hint that they could see more than he presented. But what he presented was startling enough. The daughter, a pretty, dark-haired woman, turned back, raised her iPhone, speaking of the lovely reflections of the old houses in the waters of the canal. Which was true enough, but it was not entirely those which had captured her attention.

‘Photography,’ Vanimórë said. ‘An image of the moment frozen forever in time. It was bound to happen.  
But I do not worry about Coldagnir. He too, had to live with his powers hidden, once, until he forgot in truth what he was. He can extricate himself from any trouble he may find himself in, although he may have to resort to power. I hope not, for Sauron would certainly sense it. But more things happen on that world than its people call _paranormal_ , than they would like to believe, or indeed, do believe, and most of it is hidden from the majority of the populace. Coldagnir has all the knowledge I gathered when I lived there. I would not have allowed him to go without that armour. It is a complicated place.’

‘It seems so, indeed. But there is a beauty to it. And what,’ Edenel asked, ‘is _paranormal_?’

‘Their world-view is extremely limited,’ Vanimórë smiled. ‘Almost like living in a closed room. A very crowded one, granted. If they cannot prove something exists, they tend to believe it does not, although some believe, or want to believe, in a god, or gods, a creator or higher power, but most do not think they walk the Earth, not in these latter times, and certainly Elves do not, although there are many tales of them.’

‘It seems that Claire James has accepted such things do exist,’ Edenel mused.

‘Now, yes,’ Vanimórë conceded, ‘but it was not easy. I do not think it could ever have been, however...gentle the revelation. And hers was violent. It requires an incredible mental shift. Some people could not have encompassed it, would have refused to, whatever they witnessed. She has the capacity for it, and yet it was still hard. Was? Is.’

Coldagnir moved, then, stepping down from the bridge, to disappear into the little maze of tiny lanes beside the houses. He could do nothing it seemed, about his carriage and walk. Vanimórë had never bothered to himself. It was too ingrained.

‘Canst thou not just tell him where they are, Maglor and Claire?’ Edenel asked.

‘I am not going to spy on them. Anyhow, it is a lovely city is it not? Let him — them — enjoy it for a while. I laid a false trail for Sauron to follow. It gave her a little grace.’

Edenel turned to him. ‘What happened to us — the _Ithiledhil_ — in that world?’

Vanimórë exhaled. ‘My dear.’ He heard the hard ache in his voice. ‘Something not too dissimilar to what happened to me. Thou didst still triumph over thy corruption and torment, but Melkor did not send thee out of Utumno, did not have enough time, before the hosts of the Valar descended. Thou didst fight, not for him, but for thine own lives, and — eventually — were slain. Thou wert the last, defending thy dying people. Thou didst wound Valar in thy dying. Unforgivable of course! Námo considered thee too corrupted to be reborn, and so all of thee were banished into the Void.’

‘I see.’ No emotion in the pale, unhuman eyes, none at all.

Vanimórë gripped his shoulders. ‘’There is a danger in dwelling too much on what has happened in other realities, Edenel.’

‘And yet, thou doth.’

He did. All the different realities, some so horrific that they hollowed his mind with madness. He thought, _I can change them_ , and did not because he knew it would not stop there.

 _But did I not change_ her _life? Without asking her?_

Yes, because he had seen Thuringwethil’s victims before. As the poison spread it caused confusion and, ultimately, psychosis, quite apart from the agony. He did not want Claire to reach that point, to see the intelligence in her eyes rinsed clean by pain and madness. She might have argued with him, raged, attempted to run (again). Would certainly have disbelieved him. As he cut his hand, squeezed it over the brandy-glass, he had considered that this way was better. He still thought that. There simply had not been enough time, hence the letter, carefully hidden among the documents Vanya had given her.

 

 

Dear Claire,

First of all, I apologise, It was never my intention to frighten you, or to precipitate you into the drama of this old, old tale, but you were already part of it. The stakes are simply higher now.

For Maglor, of course, this play has had many acts: there has been betrayal and hate, blood, violence, regret, grief and a long, long time of wandering alone. You know this.

I have not, myself, been on this world for very long. I came just after what you name World War II.

At its simplest, you might call me a god, but once I was less than that. I was born in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the son of Sauron and a woman of Finrod’s people kept alive by sorcery. I had (have) a twin sister.

After the War of the Ring, when Sauron was vanquished, I was free, and later, for his own inscrutable reasons, Eru made me into a god.

From where I watch now, in the Timeless Halls, I can see your Earth (for there are many ‘Earth’s’ many different realities) and could enter it at any time and place, like a fisherman walking along a riverbank, deciding what spot to cast.

There is a Portal which shows me the entire universe and all the realities within that universe. And through it, I saw Maglor, and I saw you.

In this reality, I do know Maglor, but in yours, I do not. I died there, in the War of Wrath and was cast into the Void with Melkor and his minions. Sauron believes that I may have found a way out of the Void as he did. He was always able to, but in this case due to my sister, who has become a part of all the worlds there are. You might name her _Gaia_ , although she would be more familiar to you as Nanny.

I myself did not, in your world, find a way out of the Void, but Sauron now thinks I did. The truth is more complicated. I will shed no tears in complicating Sauron’s machinations, in giving him something else to think about. If we ever meet again, I will try and explain more fully, but it is not important in the scheme of things.

I did consider approaching Maglor myself, but as he does not know me, I judged it would be useless. I am sure he has told you that his life has been dangerous and times and lonely, always; he would have sensed me and avoided me, whereas you have his trust.

I hope in time, I will come to have yours.

I wish you well,

Vanimorë.

 

 

‘I try not to,’ he said to Edenel. ‘And it is one of the reasons so few know about this,’ he gestured to the Portal. ‘It would be too easy to want to change something one saw. Fëanor did, in one world,, although he went through by accident and so one cannot blame him. And so, in that world, he did not die on the borders of Dor Daedaloth but slew the Balrogs sent to kill him, including Gothmog. Coldagnir, who was there, did not attack him. Fëanor returned here. There is a kind of meld between the one who enters that world, and their counterpart, a mental bond, for a time. A little of it lingers. On Earth, _that_ Earth, there was no other Vanimórë, just as there is no other Coldagnir.’

‘And no Edenel.’

‘No.’

‘Thou knowest what we did, we _Ithiledhil_ when we escaped, after we had taken what time we could to heal.’ His laugh was brief and bitter. Healing? There could be none. ‘We hunted. We kept as secret as we could, and we hunted and killed the servants of the Dark.’

‘I know,’ Vanimórë said gently. ‘And became a name of terror to those orcs, the eaters-of-hearts, merciless and terrible. White Demons.’

‘Then send me,’ Edenel’s eyes seemed to grow larger in his head like a cat’s. ‘If Sauron has spies, servants there, as he always did, _let me hunt them._ I need have nothing to do with Maglor or Claire, or even Coldagnir, unless it was necessary. But I can be of use. it appears I was none, in that world.’

‘There are no orcs in that world.’ Vanimórë added silently _Yet._

‘All servants of the Dark carry their scent,’ Edenel hissed. ‘Mortal, orc, Nazgûl, troll, Fell-wolf. I can smell them out like a she-fox.’

Vanimórë looked at the frosted-glass hair and strange, moonstone-pale eyes. All that Edenel/Élernil had been, his jet black hair, his steel-grey eyes, had been scorched away in the torments of Utumno. Like Coldagnir, he would not go unnoticed. He himself had tried wearing coloured contact-lenses, but his own colour burned through, damaged the lens, and in the end he had simply resorted to tinted sunglasses.

‘Tell me everything thou didst tell Coldagnir,’ Edenel urged. ‘And let me go.’

 

 

OooOooO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=v5llzb)  
>   
>  Edenel by Insant on DA.  
>   
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> For those who don’t know: Edenel (once Élernil) is from Magnificat of the Damned. Twin of Finwë, he was captured by Sauron and taken to Utumno. He and a few like him, burned free of torment there, and were not corrupted into orcs but became ‘other’ with glass-white hair and eyes. Melkor called them his White Slayers and Edenel/Élernil was their chief. Melkor sent them out to lure more Elves to Utumno. However the Valar descended on Utumno and unroofed it.  
>   
> The White Slayers called themselves the _Ithiledhil_ People of the Black Moon and, because they were ashamed of what they had become, they became a secret people, eventually settling in the Greenwood long before Thranduil was king. But they were also deadly. They loathed the orcs and when they came upon them killed them, and, in early times, ate their hearts, to absorb something of what they once had been, before their corruption. The orcs were terrified of them and even in latter Ages, the name White Slayer was a horror to the orcs.  
>   
>   
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Summer's Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659233) by [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame)




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